by Alix Strauss
They migrated back to the building, met up with other tenants, and were informed they’d have ten minutes to collect belongings if they wished. After being advised they’d be entering at their own risk, each was given a mask and flashlight, and asked to sign a waiver. A fireman would escort them up the stairs and the group would reconvene across the street afterward.
They carefully made their way up the stairs, laughing nervously at the situation, at the poor timing for a fire to happen. With Thanksgiving two days away, half of Manhattan was gearing down while the other half was moving at high speed.
Fireman Jack ordered them to hug the right side of the stairwell while he patted the walls, feeling for heat. From above, they heard feet scuffing against steps, voices becoming louder, bags thumping, four-legged creatures making light scratching sounds. They passed neighbors who were making their way down: older tenants, pregnant women with young children, men carrying suitcases, strollers banging behind them. They looked ghostly in the barely lit stairwell. People were eerily quiet as if they were expecting complicated directions or to see a burst of red flames run through the cable wires. A few firemen made momentary appearances, dodging in and out of the doorframes, like adults playing peek-a-boo.
By the fourth floor Franny was sweaty and dizzy, from the liquor and the smoke, the plastic face mask, maybe from Wes’s touch. She could feel him from behind, his hand placed at the small of her back helping to steady her.
When they got to Franny’s floor, they waited for her to enter her apartment and say “I’m okay” before moving on. Even in her tipsy state, she could hear her Southern twang escape from her mouth. Thanks to improvisation classes and diction coaches, she could turn her drawl on and off when she wanted, except when she was drunk—then she was powerless.
Once inside, she absentmindedly reached for the light, momentarily forgetting, and dropped the face mask on the dining room table. She scanned the apartment with the flashlight like a cat burglar. Broken bits of bulb sprinkled her floor like confetti. The TV seemed intact, as did her computer.
Packing came second nature, like making coffee in the morning or brushing her teeth before bed as she recalled with clarity the invisible list she’d created for situations such as these during late-night insomniac fits. In the dark of her closet she felt for her good suits and gowns, knowing them like children, each with a different texture and fabric. The rhinestones, the sequins, the beaded crystals all sent out shocks of memories: her at the Grammys, the Tonys, the VH1 Awards.
Like a game of celebrity musical chairs, it was her job to occupy an empty seat while a star was temporarily MIA. When they returned, either from the restroom or bar, or from backstage with a statue in tow, they reclaimed their seat while she looked for another opening. Everyone thought Franny led the glamorous life, holding spots for others. Sitting next to the likes of Julia or Tom, or being caught by a panning camera was all some of her colleagues—bored women whose husbands worked, college kids, retired ladies, men who wanted to get laid—needed. For her, it was being part of a momentous occasion. Participating in something epic.
“Everyone wants a cushy seat to the kingdom, but only a handful of people know how to open the door,” the casting director, who was responsible for hiring seat fillers, told her. “I got twelve hundred applications for the MTV Awards, but can only use twenty-five people.”
Before moving here, Franny’s biggest opportunity came from her cousin, who was going to be a historic tour director.
“I’m moving to Georgia and getting a job with the Southern Historical Preservation Society,” she’d said. “They need lots of girls to explain about the famous homes and talk about the history behind them.”
Aside from her mother’s sister, who married an artist and moved to Philadelphia, no one had ventured east or west. And though she missed her family, they never quite understood why Franny had felt smothered.
“Smothered on forty acres of land?” Her father had said in disbelief when she told him she was planning on leaving. “That’s impossible, young lady. God didn’t make family so we’d be split from them.”
Ironically, it was her Southern, generic looks that earned her entrance to the Promised Land. Allowed her to blend in. She could be anyone’s wife or girlfriend. Her ashy auburn hair and green eyes made her pretty to look at. Her nonthreatening, cheery personality made her easy to forget. The twangy, endearing accent was an icebreaker for nosy New Yorkers who inquired, “Where are you from?” While it was her transplant qualities that got her work, all she really wanted was to be mistaken for a New Yorker. But the more she repressed her middle American qualities, the less bookable she became.
There were exciting moments. She’d sat next to Cher once at the Grammys, shared an armrest with Michael Douglas, even rubbed shoulders with Sigourney Weaver, but she was whisked away before Franny could congratulate her or feel the heaviness of the trophy everyone was always commenting on. She participated silently at game shows, asked questions to guests on morning talk shows, and laughed on command at sitcoms. She contributed in focus groups, helped paper the house of previewing musicals, and ate at an array of new restaurants. These were great stories to tell at parties or on dates, sitting on wooden stools drinking white wine. But at the end of the night, getting on a bus or sitting alone in the back seat of a cab dressed in other people’s gowns she’d purchased at consignment shops and on eBay, with no one’s hand to grasp, was devastatingly lonely. At home, though she could sit anywhere she wanted, she never found a comfortable spot, a place where her body could just relax. These were the moments when she longed for home. For her mother’s cheese biscuits and creamy grits. Her soapy smell and sweet cherub face.
She took three pairs of evening shoes and crammed them into the stuffed garment bag. In a large LeSportsac she packed two sweaters, underwear, jeans, and a toiletry kit. Extra cash, checks, her passport, jewelry, makeup, plug for her cell phone, and a mini binder of contact numbers for her jobs got shoved into a knapsack.
She was in the middle of reaching for her date book when the knock came at her door, which she’d left open as instructed.
“I thought you might need help.” He stepped inside and shined his flashlight around her apartment, finally resting on her. Franny squinted and brought her hand up to her eyes, shadowing them. At first she thought it was fireman Jack informing her time was up, but Wes’s silhouette filled the frame of her entranceway instead.
“It’s me.” He flicked the light to just under his chin so that his angular face was instantly illuminated. His baseball hat caught the light and framed his face, making him appear slightly demonic. He, too, was maskless.
The smell of smoke wafted into the apartment as he walked over to her. She returned the gesture, and thought of the light beams from the Star Wars movies. And popcorn. The smoke reminded her of severely burnt kernels.
“You okay?” He had only one large duffel bag and a bike helmet, which scraped on her floor.
“Where’s all your stuff?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t think this is as serious as everyone’s making it. My apartment’s fine. Besides, everything important is at my office.”
She nodded, feeling silly for packing.
“So, you need some help?”
“Sure.”
As he leaned forward she caught the scent of his citrus cologne, followed by the smell of hair gel. She thought he was reaching for her bag, but when he went for her lips instead she assumed he was drunker than he thought. His breath was toothpaste minty, but still had the lingering taste of scotch. She wished she had some mints in her pocket. He put a hand on her shoulder, his other cupped her chin, and his tongue slipped into her mouth before she had time to steal a breath. Nice Southern girls don’t do this, she could hear her mother scolding. She pushed away the voice by concentrating on the softness of Wes’s skin and his firm muscles. She ran her hands under his sweater as he pressed up against her, pushing her to the floor. He was heavy on her, as if he
was struggling. A wave of nausea returned. She shut her eyes, willing herself onto a soft, warm beach, the scent of sea air replacing the smoke and her coarse, sharp carpet, which was scratching her back, arms, and thighs. He kissed her hurriedly, hungrily. She considered searching through her travel bag for the emergency condom she always packed but never had an opportunity to use. Fearing it would take too long, she waved the idea away. The building could still explode, and the fear of getting pregnant or VD became, somehow, less important.
Before she knew it, his jeans were unbuttoned, her skirt bunched up, her underwear pulled down. She sucked in her stomach trying to match his firm body. When he was inside her, she winced for a second, let out a muffled cry as she talked herself into enjoying this. After all, this was risky and exhilarating. A naughty, raunchy story to share with others as she waited to fill a seat or stood on a movie line. “Death made me do it,” she imagined herself proclaiming over sushi with girlfriends. They’d be shocked, a little mortified, but they’d have new respect for her. A badge of courage, a medal of sexual honor. “We will all go down together” she’d say, “and I did.” She visualized her burnt skeleton wrapped around Wes’s. They would find her, a mess of melted skin stuck to another just-as-scorched body, the bones indecipherable, as if they had been entwined on her Pottery Barn carpet. She pictured fireman Jack breaking down the door with the intention of pulling a rescue, only to find them on the floor. At first he would be alarmed, perhaps they had fallen, passed out from smoke inhalation, then he’d discover the truth. At least her friends would think she’d had one good fuck before she died. At least they could say she wasn’t alone.
She felt feverish and itchy and cold as she followed Wes slowly down the dark stairs, forcing herself to concentrate on the weak ray from his flashlight. It was too quiet. All she could hear was their breathing and footsteps, and his bike helmet bouncing lightly off his knapsack.
When they arrived at the meeting place everyone was waiting for them. Her hair was a mess and she was wearing the scent of burnt clothing and sex, and just a hint of Wes’s cologne. She wasn’t even sure if she had buttoned her shirt correctly in the dark. People would assume it was the dangerous situation or the burst of adrenaline that was to blame for her discombobulated state. But when no one said a word, she felt a little disappointed.
After much deliberation, cell phone numbers were exchanged and promises made to keep each other informed with updates. Joy offered the apartment of her aunt, who was away promoting a music tour, to those who had nowhere else to go. Randel was meeting his partner at the Four Seasons, where they would be staying.
“Though it’s ghastly expensive,” he said, his hand waving in the air, “it’s one of the only hotels that wasn’t sold-out. Besides, fires are depressing. We deserve a little reward for this.”
Wes announced he, too, was checking himself into the same hotel. Franny glanced at her feet. Don’t look at him. Do. Not. Look at him, she thought, waiting to see if he would ask her to join. But when Netta opened her mouth to say a friend was picking her up and the two would be starting their holiday weekend early, Franny knew Wes wouldn’t ask. The minute, the opportunity, was gone.
Joy had brought Simon’s stroller and she and Franny took turns pushing the piled-high contraption up Sixtieth Street. Neither packed winter coats, so Franny pulled out two of her sequined gowns and they wrapped them around their shoulders. They looked like well-dressed homeless people huddling together.
By the time they arrived at Joy’s aunt’s apartment, the others had sent the nannies home and made themselves comfortable, commandeering the kitchen and den. Crayons were sprawled over the mini plastic table in the kitchen, the TV played a cartoon, a tape one of the adults had packed. Diaper bags, toys, pacifiers, and books were scattered everywhere. Joy’s aunt, Honor Kraus, was a famous publicist to rock stars and her home was magazine-spread beautiful—sleek and modern—and smelled like fresh roses. Ornate molding along the floor accentuated the high ceilings in the entrance and hallway. Glossy chrome dominated the living room, offsetting the white couch, matching chairs, and vanilla-cream shag carpet. A zebra throw covered most of the floor in the den, which was decorated in hunter style—butter leather couches, warm, rich mahogany wall units, even an antique gun collection that she had won in her divorce settlement. The dining room had an elongated table, the kind that easily sat ten people and Franny could almost hear the laughter coming from past dinner parties Joy’s aunt threw. She pictured celebrities and rock stars laughing, heads falling back, hair spilling over faces, men slapping the table with the palms of their hands as they drank expensive wine and ate quail or escargot. The living room was her favorite, art deco with a black baby grand piano residing in the corner, which, she bet, was never played. The shelves were filled with photos that showed Joy’s aunt with celebrities of all sorts—some of which Franny had sat next to for work: Bowie, Sting, Cher.
Her other neighbors, David and Catherine Thompson, were an attractive couple with twin girls who lived on Franny’s floor. She was blonde, he wasn’t. Both had substantial jobs, though she worked from home part-time. The kids seemed well-adjusted. They owned three apartments that had been constructed into one large home and ruled the eighth floor. An American dream all around. Chuck, Joy’s squat and chubby husband, owned a hedge fund company and had the personality of flat seltzer.
Simon ran to his mother before she could park the stroller.
“Thanks for helping,” Chuck said to Franny after she’d gotten the full tour. He stood by the front door holding it open. Everyone stared at her until Joy announced she’d be joining them for dinner. Chuck pulled his wife aside, and Franny could see his mouth moving, his hand gripping Joy’s upper arm, see her wiggle free and walk away. Maybe she should leave, take her belongings, and just go. She glanced at the Thompsons who smiled uneasily.
They convened in the kitchen, the children at work coloring, Cheerios on a paper plate, sippy cups in a rainbow of pale colors. The adults mulled over a Szechuan Palace menu, a second bottle of champagne was already opened and nearly gone. She watched the two couples scamper around the kitchen, each with a list of tasks to accomplish, doing the shorthand speaking husbands and wives perform.
It was an odd feeling standing in someone’s aunt’s kitchen surrounded by individuals who would normally have nothing to do with her. It wasn’t a snow day, though it felt like one. “Natural disaster day” Franny wanted to call it, almost suggested it to the gang. But these people here tonight weren’t friends. And they weren’t family. Still, she knew intimate details about them: how they lived, where they shopped, what they ate, who they got food deliveries from. She knew their routine, what type of music they favored. She’d seen them dressed up, waiting for the elevator, off to attend some glamorous event. Saw the aftereffects the next day—hungover, unshowered, still smelling of sleep—as they picked up their newspapers from outside their front doors. She’d borrowed ice, sugar, milk, lent them pots, glasses, chairs. She knew their friends, heard arguments with spouses, and saw them lose control with their kids. For many, she’d been a witness when the women first began to show, and when those children celebrated their first birthdays. She’d received respectful hellos, cordial courtesies from people who had earned a peculiar kind of status. They’d bonded over the simple fact that they lived several feet away, shared a wall or ceiling.
“How about orange beef?” Chuck suggested, relinquishing the menu to his guests.
“Oh, Catherine doesn’t eat red meat, remember?” David answered for his wife.
“Right,” he said, a hand placed on Joy’s shoulder.
“We like garlic chicken. Anyone else?” Catherine chirped, leaning over her husband to see her options better. “And shrimp. We’re big shrimp people.”
“Us too.” Joy, who had finished the champagne Chuck poured her, sat down next to David, who refilled her glass without having to be asked.
“To new friends,” Joy sang.
“To new
friends,” they all repeated.
Without Wes at the house, Franny felt unexplainably lonely. She wanted to make a toast also, to their gracious hosts and to herself for being able to get through the evening.
“Franny, any requests?” Catherine asked.
If she were dating someone he’d have known what to choose. If she were closer to these people they’d be able to order for her. She hated this, the simple arrangement of things, the common understanding of jobs. The team of two. It was a Noah’s Ark hierarchy, man and woman. Even if she and Wes weren’t a couple, she could have pretended they were in this situation together. He would have paid for her portion of Chinese food. The men would have reached for their wallets simultaneously and pulled out crisp green bills. Even without kids, they could have been a team. She wondered if he’d call to check in, wanted, somehow needed, to hear his voice. She flashed to them on the floor, tried to remember how she felt. Wished he were here now.
She had spent a lifetime looking for her husband, a partner to walk up the wooden plank into the foreboding ark. This was why people married, she thought, so they’d have company, a partner in crime to go through trauma with. Good times were just a bonus.
At thirty-seven she was tempted to marry just so she could be included in group activities that couples did together: weekend trips to Connecticut and the Hamptons, vacations to Florence or Spain. She wanted dinners with friends who ate as couples, dined as a group of married professionals. She contemplated adopting a child so she could fit in with the rest of the world, go to classes, chat with other mommies in Central Park, carry bite-size food in Ziploc bags, share toys and books. But it was just her.