Le Beau Château: Abby Davis-Powers
It wasn’t until Abby was waiting in the tiny room in the firehouse a few weeks after her conversation with Jack that she began to remember. The familiar scratchiness of the fire department-issued blanket underneath her hands and its faint mildew smell instantly took her back to the night of Colin’s death.
He was tall, and he had large brown eyes, she recalled. He was the one who stopped me as I ran from the club toward the tarp, the garish blue tarp that was positioned half on the sidewalk and half in the street covering Colin. He stopped me and, as I initially struggled to break free, held me tightly. Someone walked up behind me and placed a blanket on my shoulders. The fireman wrapped it securely around me, holding me in what felt like a hug. At some point, I stopped resisting his grip and collapsed against his chest, against his rough Nomex jacket. He held me like that for what must have been several minutes before two female police officers arrived and, shielding my eyes from the tarp, took me to a waiting ambulance.
The moment I deduced that Colin had jumped—that he had taken his own life while I was inside at a party, sipping champagne—I had to go to him. There had been a number of sirens, but that’s common enough in New York. And then an officious-looking man who turned out to be the club manager appeared in the dining room with two security guards and brought the lights up. He spoke gravely with the Brownings and pointed to the roof. Following the Brownings’ lead, many in the room walked to the windows that look out onto Fifth Avenue and stared down in shock. The band was instructed to stop playing. I scanned the room.
No Colin, I thought. How long has he been gone? And then the manager and security guards were on their way over to me. I panicked. I knew, and I knew I would never get to Colin if they got to me first.
What if he’s near death and struggling? I wondered. I ran to the fire exit, down seven flights of stairs, and out into the lobby. It was clear. Everyone in it had moved to the windows—everyone but an ancient doorman, but he was easy enough to dodge. And then I was on the entrance steps and on the 54th Street sidewalk. As I rounded the corner of the club, the bright-blue tarp directed me to him.
I was about ten feet away when the fireman stepped in my path. He couldn’t have known that I was the victim’s wife, but he must have understood it on some level. Later, as the police officers gently pulled me from him, I looked at his face for the first time. I saw his eyes—his kind, big brown eyes.
I should have been smart enough to know that my fantasy had nothing to do with sex. Jack had asked me all the tacky stereotype questions in advance: do you want them to wear their uniforms? Do you want to have sex in the cab of the fire truck? Does the fire pole need to be involved?
Then, of all things, he warned me that they wouldn’t run the siren at that time of night. What am I? Five years old? All I could do was laugh. It sounded like such a dumb idea when imagined through those questions. So cheap. So desperate.
I told him that I had no interest in seeing them in their firemen uniforms, that there was no need for them to wear their black boots. I didn’t need to see the truck or the pole. I certainly didn’t want a siren. He was surprised when I told him that all I wanted was to be with them in their private quarters. He warned me that the accommodations weren’t much better than a prison cell, but I didn’t care. There was a part of me that knew I wanted to be in that room, that I needed to be there to remember the only comfort I felt the night Colin died.
Elizabeth knew. She said it: I feel safe with civil servants now. Since Colin’s death, I’m vulnerable in ways I have never been before. I’ve changed, and I need help. Lots of help. Will sex with a few firemen in that room help me? I don’t know. Can I trust Jack? I hope so. Can his faith in kundalini make a believer out of me?
Abby shifted on the cot and decided to get underneath the blanket and top sheet while she was waited for the firemen. That blanket really was scratchy, she thought.
There were footsteps in the hallway. The door to the room opened.
Wow, they’re young, she thought. Oh God, why are they wearing their helmets? This is embarrassingly bad. What could they possibly think of me? But they are cute…very cute. And fit. And eager. Extremely eager. Maybe twenty-five years old? If they lose the helmets, I might be able to do this. I definitely can do this. But, you know, Jack was right. This room is very basic. How are all three of us going to fit on this cot? I certainly don’t want them to push two of these together and attempt it. I’d end up on the linoleum floor.
Jack was right. This room is like a prison cell. Maybe sex in the cab of the fire truck would be better? It certainly would be different, more fantasy-like. Better to stir up the kundalini energy.
When we’re done, when I’ve exhausted myself, maybe I’ll take home one of their blankets as a keepsake.