MEDALLIONS 
By Peter A. Luber
Claude and Muffy's practiced strut onto the gray 5th Avenue sidewalk was foiled by the slap of the late afternoon October chill. It twisted their lofty postures, forcing them to yank their useless silk collars tight against their skinny white necks. The sans-coat-devil-may-care image they preferred to project was vanquished by nature. They hated nature. 
Howard and Muffy Gentry wanted to be seen as the perfect monied couple. Their obese egos would not allow them to agree that any passerby would have seen them as a couple of shivering waifs, pale and fragile enough to actually be threatened by the brisk October air. If they were not thoroughly engulfed by silk and jewels, that passerby might even surrender a dollar. 
"Afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Gentry," Howard, the doorman, boomed cheerfully as he eased the polished brass door shut behind them. His flabby jowls were tightly tucked into the exaggerated collar of an immaculate red wool topcoat. He rubbed his own arms more as a weather report than an effort to get warm, and continued, "Bit nippy out here. You folks might want to send up for wraps before you head out." 
"Thank you no, Howard," Claude sniffed to the doorman, "It's a short ride. I am sure the car that you have yet to produce for us will be heated." 
"Where is Flora with our luggage?" Muffy snapped to no one in particular. Her answer came in the form of a thud against the foyer door. Howard lurched for the gold handle, drawing a grimace from Claude. 
"Really Howard," his snarl dampened by a shiver, "The car." His faulty command elicited a rude giggle from Muffy. 
"Sorry sir," Howard said over an empty epaulet, "Duty, you know." He pulled the door open and was able to grab three of the six Louis Vuitton cases before they clattered to the floor, free of Flora's tiny white knuckles. 
"But I was here first," Claude whined, "Never mind. I'll get a taxi myself. Your failure to have one waiting will most certainly not ring well with Mr. Snipes." He stepped into the street. 
"Sorry sir," Howard repeated mindlessly, setting the cases to the pavement. He joined Claude, continued: "But I thought that when you ordered a car, it would be the usual service. I left a message with Serge at Skytop, but he only called moments ago to, um, confirm your current status. I was going to ask you." 
"Shut up Howard!" Claude snapped, freezing the portly doorman's damning excuses. He scanned the street for neighbors, saw none, and said, "And blast your incompetence. Now step aside, here's one now." He stuck one bony finger in the air, his pose as majestic as possible. A battered yellow Caprice far up the avenue slowed appreciably at his gesture. Claude crooked his finger, wagged it a bit. As if its driver came to a decision, the cab suddenly sprinted to the curb beside them, forcing Claude and Howard to leap for safety. Claude recovered nicely, silenced Flora's titters with a glance, but could do nothing about Muffy's. He bent toward the cab's opening window. Howard tried to step between him and the cab. 
"Sir please," he insisted, "Let me call you a proper taxi. It'll take but a moment." 
"This one's fine," Claude said, his creased eyes inches from Howard's puffy lips. 
"But sir, it has no--" 
"Out of my way, little man," Claude yelled, shoving Howard who, of course, allowed the frail tenant to push him aside. 
"Fine sir," Howard said. 
"Kennedy Airport?" Claude asked/demanded of the dark skinned driver. He assumed that, like all NY hacks, English would not be in his repertoire. 
The driver nodded inanely, said in a heavy middle eastern accent, "Kennedy, sir, yes, quick quick." 
"There Howard," Muffy said softly, unable to hide the thick sarcasm irreparably embedded in her collagen-lipped slur, "Everything is just fine. Now load our bags, please." She stepped back. 
"Yes, of course," Howard said, his jovial tone and visage quite natural. The trunk popped open as he hefted the three bags he had rescued earlier. He carefully placed them in the decaying metal cavity, careful to conceal the doorway to the street ancient rust had opened. Flora handed him the other three cases, which he deposited with equal care. He surreptitiously patted Flora's callused hands, which were prematurely aged from over a decade of loyal, unappreciated service. She smiled, shared the obvious secret. The Gentry's had already taken their seats in the back of the cab. The door remained open, waiting to be closed by lesser hands than Claude's. Howard counted to five before stepping over to it. He leaned into the dark car. 
"Sorry for the confusion folks," He said drawing out the pathetic ruse, "I will endeavor to remedy my oversight with exemplary behavior." 
"I'm sure we'll be discussing your 'future behavior' with Mr. Snipes at our earliest convenience," Claude hissed softly through his thin blue lips. 
"Of course, sir," Howard said, gently closing the door. 
The tattered taxi's tires squealed as it launched from the curb. Flora and Howard watched until it was gone. She touched his elbow, whispered in his ear: 
"You should have told him." 
"I suppose," Howard sighed, "I suppose." He wrapped his neatly tailored arm around Flora's thin shoulders, turned her around. As he opened the door for her he paused, looked in her eyes, continued, "But would he have listened? He announces constantly that he is a born and bred New Yorker; he must know. Ah, hell, I guess I finally got sick of speaking unheard words." he hoisted his blue lips into a tired smile, shut the heavy door behind her, and returned to his post. 
"Perhaps you should have shown more compassion, Claude," Muffy noted after they turned east on 59th, "What with our situation and all." 
"Our situation is an annoyance. It is temporary, and certainly not news to be shared with a hapless doorman," Claude said, looking out the window as the grizzled driver yanked his cab into rush hour traffic. Well, not out the window. He was unable to see past his own reflection. He noticed and removed a bit of pimple material from one of his tiny nose pores. 
"It won't be our charity, Claude. You saw the looks Flora was tossing the old fart. You'd think they had a thing. The tramp." 
"Maybe she's his daughter." Claude ventured. 
"Oh Claude," Muffy guffawed, careful to catch any coarse laughter spit in her hand, "You know that can't be true. I mean, Howard is so Irish, and Flora is Puerto Rican, or some such. There's just no way. I can tell." 
"Whatever. I just right now want a retreat from this town, the co-op board, the IRS, Clemins at the firm. All of it." 
"Well now, dear," Muffy said, linking her arm in his but still not touching him, "That's why we're taking this wonderful trip to Cannes." 
"You're so right. And damn the cost. And damn the cold in this cab," Claude declared. He reached to tap the divider glass with his Princeton ring, but stopped mid-swing when he noticed the partition was missing. He augmented his heavy sigh with a wimpy slap on the greasy seatback. 
"Driver," he shouted, "Some heat back here. Now." 
"Sir. Heat," the cabby said, nodding vigorously, "Right away. Heat, sir." 
"Good man," Claude said, sitting back. He wiped his hands together, said to Muffy: "That's taken care of." Muffy didn't hear him. She was looking out her own window. The glass on her side offered no reflection, so she noticed that they were taking Rt. 278 south, not north, off the Queensboro bridge. 
"That's odd," She said, her clear polish manicured index finger touching her latest chin, "I always thought we take this road in the other direction." 
"I wouldn't know, Sweetums, you know usually I watch the markets on TV, not dull scenery, during these drives." 
"Well, it's not right. I think the driver made a wrong turn." 
"Nonsense," Claude said, "All cabbies know exactly how to get to all NY airports. Even, I would imagine, Newark. It's in their DNA along with a few quarts of oil, apparently." He leaned forward again, referenced the hack license taped to the dash. 
"Excuse me Mr., um, Williams," he said, "You do know the way to Kennedy?" 
"Kennedy, yes. Yes Kennedy," the driver repeated, smiling brightly. 
"The airport, right?" 
"Yes yes. Airport," He took his hands off the wheel mimicked an airplane with his arms outstretched. 
"Okay okay! I get it!" Claude shouted. Mr. Williams resumed steering. Claude sat back, nestling unusually close to Muffy. She recoiled a bit. He whispered, "See? No problem. We'll be fine." 
"Great. Will that be before or after we freeze to death?" 
"Very funny dear. I'm sure there will be heat. If not, well, it can't be more than an hour to the terminal." 
"You have the tickets, right?" 
"Aren't they waiting by the plane?" Claude asked, visibly confused, "They always are." 
"No. No," Muffy rolled her almond eyes, "We couldn't get that this time, remember? The club thing?" 
"Oh my," Claude said, slightly touching his fingertips together as he rapidly recounted distant moments, "That means that yesterday, when Cora said my tickets were on my desk, she wasn't speaking figuratively?" 
"Good God Claude," Muffy declared. "How stupid are you?" 
"Come come," Claude said, his error already forgiven. He checked his Piaget, said, "We still have an hour and a half to the flight. We'll simply tell the driver to scootch back to mid town. I'll stick my head in my office, grab them and we're on our way." 
"What about that rube Clemins?" 
"Oh, him," Claude grimaced, then smiled (after ten years of marriage, Muffy could differentiate), "He can be bypassed." He leaned forward again, tapped Mr. William's blue-sweatered shoulder. The driver started, jumping the curb in his excitement, then smiled. 
"So sorry," he said sheepishly. 
"That's quite all right," Claude said, "Listen my man, we have a change of plans. I must go back to 57th and 5th for an item. Please turn around immediately." 
"Yes. Kennedy," The driver nodded vigorously, "Right around immediately." 
"Oh shit," Muffy whispered. 
"No, no," Claude tried again, slowly, "Back, turn, Manhattan" 
"Manhattan. Yes. Kennedy." 
"No, you idiot! You foreign imbecile. Midtown. Midtown Manhattan. Back over bridge." 
"Oh!" the cabby exclaimed, "Bridge. No Kennedy. I get!" He swerved to the right lane, sped off the next exit into Brooklyn. 
"Thank God," Muffy said. 
"See? No problem." 
"No. No problem," the driver repeated. "Almost there." 
"Well, I wouldn't say that." Claude said, blissfully ignorant of his condescending tone. The cab suddenly skid to a halt. Claude and Muffy were hurled to the floor. As they struggled to regain their seats without contacting the sticky floor, the driver leaned over them, regarding them with an all too comprehending and livid countenance. 
"I would," He said softly, with no accent or head-nodding. He showed them the chrome pistol nestled in his hand. 
"Well, so much for the tickets," Claude said as the cab disappeared down the deserted street, leaving the troubled couple without money, jewelry, or outer clothing. 
They stood in the middle of the road, surrounded by debris, gutted buildings, garbage, and absolutely no people. Muffy was already shivering violently. Her thin white arms were wrapped around her pink designer bra more out of vanity than for warmth. Her eyes, wide with terror, did not, would not, release their focus on Claude's pale face. She had no interest in her surroundings, or in seeing what new horror encroached. She took no comfort in the tears gushing from Claude's eye slits, in spite of his attempted bravura. All she felt was cold, and a sharp, adrenaline-pumping intuition that she was about to die. In Brooklyn. 
"In Brooklyn!" she screamed, slapping Claude's bare chest violently, "How could you? You Bastard!" She shivered uncontrollably, either from the cold or her anger. She didn't care which. 
"What?" Claude stammered, his feminine hands raised in defense, "What did I do?" Muffy regarded his pathetic stance. She was once intrigued by his 'artistic' frame and demeanor. Now all she wanted was a man with a little meat on him, who wasn't intimidated by a ninety pound waif. 
"What did you do?" she continued her tirade, swinging violently with each sentence. It kept her warm. "You blithering, motherfucking idiot! Where the hell do I start? You lost a seven-figure salary out of sheer stupidity; you lied to me about it; you refused my father's job offer; you planned this stupid waste of the last of our cash trip; you pissed off Howard; you got us in a cab without a fucking medallion; then, and I'm sure finally, you let some ape rob us and leave us here naked in fucking Beirut to die! Do you want me to go on?" 
"That's fine, Muff. Just fine," Claude shouted, his attempt at authority sounding more like a desperate squeal, "What the hell did you want me to do? Fight?" 
Muffy's rage snapped for the instant she pictured Claude taking useless swings at their assailant, then returned, "You could have at least grown one ball and convinced the asshole to let us keep our clothes. No. Couldn't do that, could you? No, you had to ask him if he wanted them, too!" 
"That was sarcasm, Muff," Claude whimpered, ducking her latest, and hardest, swing. 
"That was shitty timing, Claude! And stop calling me Muffy. My name is Sylvia, for Christ's sake!" 
"It is?" Claude honestly asked. Sylvia caught his blue ear with a blow that drew blood, pounding his next line out, "Of course it is, Mu-Sylvia! I was just kidding. Now stop hitting me. Please!" Sylvia stopped, gasping for air. I was done anyway, she thought. 
They stood, silently facing each other, for a few minutes. Each was still afraid to look around. Both noticed that they were still alone, still cold. In a few frigid moments other thoughts began a ragged dance through Sylvia's racing mind. She wondered if Claude noticed her nipples almost ripping through the thin silk of her bra (probably not, she conceded). She hoped there was no glass under her bare feet. She wished Claude would wear the boxers she bought, instead of those awful red briefs. She tried to remember her phone card pin number. Eventually she came back to the cold, and their position in the middle of a frozen street, bathed in harsh fall air rife with the smell of old sweat socks and forgotten garbage. She reached out, touched one of Claude's bony wrists. 
"Claude," she said softly, "We have to do something." 
Claude didn't answer. Good God, she thought, could he be dead already? Standing up? His skin was certainly cold and clammy enough. Of course, it always was. His sudden demise wouldn't have shocked her. Indeed, it would have been Claude to a tee. He blinked. 
"What?" he asked. 
"You know, Claude. Do. Something. Other than just stand here and freeze to death?" 
"We can't freeze," he said, his tone dismissive, "It's still too warm." 
"Damn, Claude, still looking for an argument are you? Fine. Here's one: What time is it?" 
"I don't know. Afternoon, I guess. The man took my Piaget." 
"Yeah, yeah," Sylvia said softly, "Your pretty watch is gone. It's probably late afternoon. What else do you suppose will be gone in a couple of hours?" 
Claude scanned her with renewed fear, "You're not going to leave me, are you?" 
She smiled, "I won't say the thought hadn't crossed my mind once or twice but no, I'm here. What else?" 
Claude stared at her blankly. She sighed. Since his world had just completed its destruction around him, she supposed that there was no more time for games. She took his hand, rubbed it a little. 
"The sun, Claude. The sun will be down, real soon," she fought to control her condescending tone, "Do you remember the weather report?" 
"Oh, shit," He said, suddenly scanning their surroundings. It was the first time she heard him use that word, ever. Claude was waking up. He continued, "Muffy. Sylvia. We have to do something fast. You think it's cold now? The weather calls for temperatures close to zero tonight. We can't survive that." 
"Now we're on the same page," Sylvia said through her chattering teeth, "So what do we do?" 
"I don't know," he said thoughtfully. She could tell he was thinking. And that was one thing Claude was good for -- his mind could race like the wind when pressed. He continued, his voice clear, "We could walk. This desolation can't go on forever. We can walk to the river, find a bridge back to Manhattan. Maybe run into a cop on the way." 
"Not to be negative, but which way is the river?" Sylvia asked gently. She omitted her opine that there probably hadn't been a cop in these neighborhoods since the seventies. Claude spun on his bare heel, a full 360 degrees. He searched the overcast sky. 
"I, I don't know, exactly. Definitely in Brooklyn, I think," He said, squinting, "Maybe Queens. Couldn't be the Bronx; I'm pretty sure we didn't cross over any more bridges." 
"Do you know which way is west?" 
"Um, no." 
"Me neither. I guess I should be just as guilty for not paying attention. So, do we go back to panicking now?" That drew a smile from her beleaguered little husband. 
"Not many other choices, huh? Do we dare ask for directions?" 
Sylvia was about to nod, then realized that they hadn't seen a soul throughout the whole robbery. The crook hadn't even told them not to scream. The guy had found the moon, she thought, right in the center of the universe, to do his business. 
"From who?" she asked sincerely. 
"There must be someone in these buildings. You remember how those tenements we owned in Yonkers were always littered with squatters and drug users." 
"Not the most helpful of people. Maybe we ought to steer clear of the buildings." 
"I guess looking for a phone is out of the question," Claude sighed, "And eating or finding our clothes should be relegated to fantasy." 
"You're right about that. But there must be something we can put on. Maybe in that abandoned car over there." 
"Let's hold off on that as long as we can, okay Sweetums? The thought is still too repulsive." 
"Yeah. We might be naked, but we are still human. Should we start a fire?" Sylvia suggested. The rush of the moment was wearing thin, and the early evening's frigid air had resumed it's inexorable grind under her pale skin. 
"With what? You have any matches? A lighter?" Claude wasn't being sarcastic. 
"You're right. Plus, a fire would be a thug and junkie magnet. Forget it." They resumed their staring contest. They were content to remain frozen in the middle of the street, passively waiting for a useful idea to drift into their emptying minds. This went on for a few more minutes until Sylvia stepped forward, fell into Claude's arms. He was as cold as the air. 
"Claude," she whispered, "This is bad." 
Night fell. Vague shadows nipped at their fleshy heels. These harbingers of impending cold and dark chased them slowly, unconsciously, to the east side of the street. Unconsciously enough that neither noticed that the elements were offering them a compass, a hint at salvation. By the time gray twilight surrendered to the blackness, they were huddled at the edge of the sidewalk. Neither of them sat, as they were unwilling to touch their naked thighs against the grimy concrete. Sylvia stared at the stars that had begun to spread above them. 
"Look, Claude. The sky is finally clearing. I've never seen so many stars." 
"Well, there had to be a bright spot somewhere along the way. At least the lack of streetlights are giving us a nice evening." 
"My God, we really are on the moon." 
"It could well be," Claude said, drawing her into his sunken chest, "I think the moon might be warmer, though." 
Sylvia tried to stretch her chapped, oddly frozen lips into a smile, and failed. She longed for the extra body fat the diet books said she was supposed to be carrying. She straightened up, drawing Claude with her. 
"Claude," she said, "We have to do something. Find shelter. Fast." 
"You are so right. I've been watching this building for a long time now, and I think it's empty." She could just see his gesture toward a nearby brownstone. 
"I really don't care at this point, as long as there's something that burns inside." 
"You should care. The monsters will be out soon, I'm sure of it. It'll be bad enough to be found on the street, but to trip over them in their den would be disastrous." 
"Don't talk like that, Claude. They are people," Sylvia said, running out of strength for lectures. Suddenly she jumped, instinctively startled by a thing she sensed more than saw; a heaviness in a nearby shadow. She clamped her hands around Claude's elbow, and whispered, "In fact, don't talk at all. There's someone on the corner. Over there." 
"I don't see anyone," Claude said, way too loudly, "Of course, I don't see anything. There's no light at all." 
"I don't see him either, Claude. But I know he's there. So whisper, for God's sake. We have to get off the street now." She braced herself for his sarcasm, for the fight. Instead, he turned toward his building. 
"Let's try in there then," he whispered. Sylvia nodded. She had also studied the building that was just up the street before the sun vacated. She was sure it was the same as his choice; as it was the only one standing, alone and intact on the ravaged block. She remembered noting that some glass was still in the windows on the upper floors when she swept its surface earlier, searching for attackers. Monsters. She clutched Claude's hand, terrified of losing contact with him in the cold blackness. She followed him, realizing that in a past lifetime she would have asked him at least three times if he knew where the hell he was going. Not now, she thought, not now. She smiled at her unnatural flash of faith. 
They helped each other through the tiny, invasive breeze their movement fostered, and were almost carrying each other by the time they stubbed their bare toes on the building's high stoop. Sylvia scaled the first two concrete steps before she realized that her body was not interested in climbing the next ten. She stopped. Claude clutched her upper arm, tugged gently. 
"No, love," he whispered, "We can't stop. Not here." 
"But Claude. The steps." 
"Ignore them. You have no choice. Imagine they're the steps to that brownstone in the west 90's that we always wanted." -- But could never have because the upper west side wasn't a neighborhood for us, Sylvia finished silently. Claude hadn't mentioned that place in five years. She thought he had forgotten. She took a step, felt the skin on her leg protest the move. She ignored it, endured the climb by imagining what her husband (her husband!) suggested, and reveling in the sweet fact that he remembered. In time she realized that the entrance was near. She could smell the rich odor of decay, as if the building itself were flatulent. 
The rotten entry hall wasn't locked, or even obstructed by a door. They felt their way in, knocking off paint chips and bits of paper from the walls, until they found a doorway. Claude passed through it, felt nearby walls for a light switch. He found one, and flipped it. Miraculously, a bare bulb ten feet above their heads glowed dimly, almost brown. To Sylvia, it might as well have been the sun. 
"Find some matches. There must be something in this mess," Claude said, "I'll try the kitchen." Sylvia watched him fade into a black doorway, awestruck. Her weasel of a husband had actually surveyed the place while she was basking in the light. Helluva time to find out you married a man, she chided herself. She began her search for something with which to start a fire. As she scanned the battered living room, she noticed that her movements had become twitchy. Her ceaseless violent shivering probably had something to do with that, though the cold wasn't as sharp as it was outside. 
The room was devoid of anything useful like clothing, or even curtains. She found some oily rags in a corner, examined them. They were too small to provide any kind of cover, so she dropped them. Maybe we can burn them later, she thought. If we find something to start a fire with. She inspected the worn hardwood floors, the only wood in the room. Good wood, she thought, but we'll need a jackhammer to get it up, and probably some gas to get it burning. She hadn't noticed any power tools lying about. 
A crash sounded in the other room, followed by a flurry of muttered curses. Sylvia guessed that Claude's investigation was going well. He must be okay, she thought, so I'm sure he won't mind if I don't investigate, or call after him. She hadn't been able to move her lips for at least twenty minutes, and was reluctant to attempt parting them. 
Claude stumbled out of the kitchen with what appeared to be a coil of rope in his hand. He held it to the light. 
"No matches?" Sylvia asked, wincing. Her lip fear was well-founded. 
"Nope," Claude said, "But this might work just as well. What's up with your voice? You okay?" 
"Fine. Never better," she said. Now that's my Claude, she thought. "What are you going to do? Do you need anything?" 
"I'm going to start a fire. I need an electric outlet and some rags." 
"I got the rags. How are you going to do it?" 
"I ripped some wire from the wall in the other room. I figure I could put two pieces into a socket, touch the other ends over something that'll burn and, ta da!, warmth." 
"Aren't you a little concerned about burning down the building?" 
"Only a little. Besides, we could light it in the oven, be safe." 
Sylvia was amazed, but not convinced. She said, "What about the monsters outside? Won't they want to come in and warm up too?" 
"Good point. I wish we could cover the windows somehow. Hell, that dim bulb is probably a handy beacon on its own. But then, we might get lucky; maybe there really is no one out there." 
As if on cue they heard the throb of a poorly muffled V8 engine nearby. 
"Oh shit," Claude whispered. He ran across the room, shut off the light. They were bathed in blackness again. Sylvia fought back panic, groped for Claude. She found him, clung tight. They gingerly shuffled to the slightly less black area on the wall that signified a window. As a unit, they gingerly stuck their heads out into the night to see what terror was coming. 
A large car from the seventies was crawling toward them. Its high beams flooded the barren street with white light and black shadows. Four of its occupants hung from open windows. They were scanning the buildings as the car rumbled along. Sylvia could hear Claude's breathing speed up as the Cadillac stopped in front of their building. 
"Holy shit," he whispered, "You don't think they live here, do you?" 
"They couldn't," Sylvia sighed, "They're alive." Claude squeezed her hand gently. She felt that he knew she wasn't kidding. 
The four men -- boys really, Sylvia could tell in the wash of the headlights -- stepped out of the car. One of them reached into the passenger side front window, removed a dark object from the seat. Sylvia gasped, sure it was a gun, and that the boys knew about them and were coming in. Instead the boy clicked on a powerful spotlight, and began a meticulous scan of the building. Claude grabbed Sylvia, started to drag her to the floor. It did not take much effort; she was already convincing her knees to bend for her again, one last time. They did, and she dropped noisily to the wooden floor. The splinters that were driven into her ass by the impact felt like machetes. She struggled against crying out, but the tiniest of yelps pushed through her frozen lips. The light stopped at their open window. It's invasive incandescence offered them a good look at their sanctuary. However, neither of them cared to inspect the battered apartment as the light showed the every corner. 
"Shit," they heard from below, "Ain't nothin' up there at all, Shakir. Especially no white folk. Hell, they be flashing their white asses at us by now, looking for a ride." 
"Ain't what Lupey say," another voice said. 
"Lupey a crack head, bro," the first voice said, "Forget what he say, man. There ain't nothin' here for us." 
"Damn straight," the second voice said, "Let's get back. It's cold out here, man." 
The light blinked off, showering the terrified former aristocrats in blessed darkness. Doors slammed, an engine roared, then faded away. Claude and Sylvia didn't move for a minute or two, until the demand for basic survival stirred their whipped souls. Sylvia heard Claude's joints crack when he rose. She swallowed panic when he shuffled away, sure he was just looking for the light switch. She was proven right when the bulb glowed softly again, illuminating Claude's gaunt and shivering body with dim yellow light. He attempted a brave smile, crossed back over to her. He was bent over almost double by his ceaseless and fruitless attempt to ward off the cold. 
"So Claude," Sylvia said as he helped her to her feet, "What about that fire?" 
"Comin' up, homey," Claude tried to joke. Sylvia didn't try to laugh. She followed him around the frozen apartment, more to keep her blood flowing than to help. She longed for a coat, a blanket, a plastic garbage bag. Fond memories of the six floor- length fur coats hanging in her closet spurred a rueful smile. 
Claude was back in the kitchen, working in near darkness. He had two lengths of wire stretched out across the counter. One end of each was jammed in either slot of an electric outlet, the other ends were carefully separated on the blackened surface. He was standing still, rubbing his chin, and not shaking. After a puzzled instant, Sylvia realized her husband was thinking. 
"So what's the plan?," she asked, surprised at the effort it took to breath out the question. Claude paused before he answered, with what Sylvia took for a look of concern. She suddenly felt a few degrees warmer. 
"Simple," he said, "All I need to do is touch these wires together to get a spark. I'm guessing that the current is low enough that I'll be able to do it a few times before a fuse blows." 
"Okay," Sylvia said quickly in an effort to speed his moment along, "Sparks. Then what?" 
"These greasy rags you found smell like oil or something. I'm betting they'll light right up. Once they're burning, we just have to start up the scraps of wood I found, and we're warm." 
"How long will the wood last?" Sylvia asked. The pile was quite small. 
"Not very," Claude responded, looking around, "But hopefully long enough for us to find more wood." 
"From where? We're not going outside, are we?" 
"Now's not a good time for this, Muff," Claude said, emphasizing the nickname, "Let's get a flame first, then we'll find something. Hell, I don't know, maybe a door or something. Of course, I'm sure I won't be able to get it off its hinges." 
"Fuck that," Sylvia said, "We'll bring the fire to the door. What about the smoke?" 
"We hope. The ceilings are pretty high in here, and the windows go right to the top, so hopefully there should be enough ventilation." 
"'Nuff said," Sylvia said, "Let's do it." 
"Okay," Claude said. He selected one of the rags, bunched it up, then laid it on the counter. He picked up the wires and, with no warning, tapped their exposed ends together. Per his plan, a tiny shower of sparks erupted. They were out before making it to the rags. 
"Shit," he whispered. 
"Do it again," Sylvia prompted, "Put it closer." 
"No kidding." Claude rested one wire against the rag, then touched the other end to it again. 
The rag burst into flame, eliciting a yelp from both of them as they jumped back. Claude grabbed another rag, set it near, but not quite on top of the first. Still slightly blinded by the flash, Sylvia edged closer to the warmth. Once the second rag was blazing, Claude dropped a couple of slivers of wood in. They didn't ignite fast enough for him so he dropped a couple more pieces on. Smoke filled the room, but the fire refused to be snuffed by Claude's overzealousness. The kindling burst into warm yellow flame. 
Sylvia wanted to cheer, but lacked the strength. Instead she took Claude's cold hand and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Claude appeared not to notice. He was staring at the kitchen's dilapidated cabinets, grinning broadly. 
"There's our wood," he said. 
"Where?" Sylvia snarled, slightly annoyed that he had ignored her special gesture, "You going to rip those off the wall?" 
"Nope. Just take out a piece or two." He punched a shelf, swore as his fist bounced uselessly off. He tried another, with the same results. Sylvia saw the condition of the shelves in the firelight, and understood what he was doing. She also would have helped, but was having trouble moving her arms. She wondered where Claude found the strength. 
Find it he did, though: his third try was met with a resounding crack as the shelf came apart in his hand. He tore off his booty, laid it on the fire. 
"That won't do too much," he said, disappointed at the foot-long shard of painted wood that slowly began to glow in the tiny blaze. He didn't punch any more cabinets. Clearly it was taking too much out of him. Sylvia began opening drawers, looking for a tool that might help him. By the time the third empty drawer squealed open, she realized what she was doing. 
"Wait a minute," she said. She gave a yank, pulled the drawer out of the counter, laid it carefully on the fire. "Ta da!" she said. Claude was beaming. 
"Duh," he exclaimed, though he did not seem hurt by her one upmanship. They stopped speaking, huddled by the growing fire, trying to ignore the smoke. 
Three drawers and an hour later, their heating system had warmed Sylvia's senses enough to allow other priorities to enter her shaken thoughts. As long as the fire burned, they would not freeze, but they were still very hungry, very tired, and very alone. Sylvia wondered what time it was. She assumed that it must be nearly dawn, but feared that time had slowed, ensuring that the nightmare would continue. 
"We have to start thinking about getting home, Claude," she said. 
"I know, dear," Claude said gently, "Little else has crossed my mind since the taxi stopped. But it would probably be best to wait for morning. That way we can see where the sun comes up and get our bearings." 
"Good thinking," she said, strangely pleased that her mouth was moving properly again, "When do you suppose that will be?" 
"Couple hours, I guess. It better be; we're on our last drawer." His tone had changed, Sylvia noticed. His voice had deepened somehow. Claude wasn't shrill anymore, and he hadn't called her Muffy for hours. Suddenly a word surfaced in her thawing mind: sincere. The trauma they were suffering had sown sincerity in her empty husband. She wrapped her arms around him, and tugged gently downward on his waist. He was compliant to her tender gesture, and followed her down to the floor. 
They held each other in silence. Sylvia listened to his nasal breath. It was still repulsive, but somehow bothered her less. She was, she realized, willing to let the shrill whine hover close for the first time, ever. She also realized she was excited; turned on, for the first time in years. 
"And here we are, too weak to move, much less do something about it," Claude said. 
"Yup," she said, not caring to acknowledge that he had read her mind. She nestled closer, "I have an idea, since we're parked here until the sun and God return." 
"What's that?" 
"Let's just sit here, and enjoy each other's company. Forget the circumstances, forget our history, drop our relentlessly fabricated personas, and just relax." 
"I could definitely go along with that," Claude whispered. She could see his smile in the dim orange glow of the fire. He looked content. 
"My God, Claude," she said, rubbing his arm, "I can't believe the alarm clock we needed just to wake up." 
"Seriously. Spain would have been nice, though." 
"Nice, yes, but it would have been so much emptier than this room. No matter how much we paid." 
"I think you're right Sylvia," Claude said. 
"I love to hear you say my name," Sylvia said, nuzzling his neck. She bumped her nose on his Adam's apple, but really didn't care. 
"I guess I reached the heights of artificial snobbery by forgetting it, didn't I?" 
"Hey, I let you forget it, didn't I?" 
"What a pair," Claude said. He raised his right hand, presented it to Sylvia, said, "Nice to meet you. My name's Claude. I'm your husband." 
Sylvia, eyes blurred, took his hand, shook it, said, "It's a pleasure Claude. I'm Sylvia. Your wife." Claude pulled her closer, kissed her deeply. They held the kiss until they were out of breath, separated, and sat silently in each other's arms. Sylvia thought without words, swimming instead in the emotion that this frigid, terrifying day had born from the ashes of their spent lives. In time she opened her eyes. She noticed that her forehead still touched his. His eyes were already open, and focused only on her. 
"Well," she said, "Looks like we might only need one bedroom after all." 
"Good," Claude quipped, "Because that's all we'll be able to afford from now on." 
"Forget that, Claude," Sylvia whispered, "We'll have plenty of time to make repairs." 
They hugged again. They were silent for a few more minutes, until Sylvia noticed that Claude's tiny chest was heaving in a most alien manner. It took another minute of close concentration for her to realize her husband was crying. She found strength somewhere and gave him a mighty hug. 
When she let go, Claude asked, "What was that for?" 
"Because I love you." 
"I love you, too." 
"Claude," Sylvia whispered, "Do you realize that's the first time we ever said it?" 
"No. C'mon, we've said it a million times." 
"Not in less than ten words. And certainly not without qualifiers." 
"Damn," Claude said, "I don't think we left the cabby a big enough tip." 
"I guess we owe Howard for letting us take the ride." 
"We sure do. I hope he can ever forgive us." 
"Don't count on it," Sylvia said, "We bought our ticket." 
They were quiet for a few more minutes, holding each other tight while they watched their fire, the one on the counter, die. Claude reclined a bit more, brought her with him. 
"Maybe we should get a little sleep," he said, "This nightmare is far from over, so we should be as rested as possible for tomorrow's adventure." 
"You got that," Sylvia said, "I can't wait to explore Brooklyn in my underwear." 
"Don't worry," Claude said, "I think we'll have a little better luck finding clothes in the morning. We got a little more adept at survival last night than we were coming in." 
"I think you're right, babe," Sylvia smiled, "I think your right." Without another word, she nestled close to him and drifted off to sleep. Her fears of the night, the cold, and the coming adventure were soothed by Claude's gently heaving chest. Just before she finally drifted off, she heard a church bell toll twice. She was sure she imagined it, but was happy to go to sleep with that hopeful note in her ear. 
The glare of the winter sun forced Howard to shade his eyes in order to identify the woman approaching. It was Flora, and her face was ashen. Howard was immediately concerned. 
"Flora," he said, "You just left. What is it?" 
"Oh Howard," Flora said, almost stumbling into his arms. She clutched his lapels, buried her cheek in his ruffled shirt. 
"Flora?" Howard asked, sensing the answer. 
"They found them, Howard." 
"The Gentry's?" 
"Yeah. They found a couple, half eaten by rats, in a tenement in Brooklyn. They were in each others arms. The coroner figured they must have frozen to death about a month ago. He identified them from dental records." 
"Right after they left," Howard said. He slapped his forehead, "Ohmygod! The taxi! The one without the medallion!" 
"We should call the cops," Flora said. 
"You're right," Howard said, "I'll get Fred to take my place, we'll go right now. Jeez, I should've kept them out of that cab." 
"A flight of angels couldn't have kept them out. You did what you could, Howard." 
"No, I did what I did. I meant no harm to the poor bastards, though." 
"I know." 
"What a way to go, though, huh?" Howard mused, not willing to spend guilt on such awful people, "They probably blamed us, and each other, and the rest of the world, right up to their last breath." 
"No doubt. I'm surprised they were in each other's arms." 
"Hey, even serpents snuggle to keep warm."