Long Live the Queen

by Ellen Emerson White

  “I have to warn you, though,” he said, taking the machine out of the box. “They dropped both ends of a double-header one of the days.”

  Oh, nifty. That was going to be a treat to watch. “Naturally,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “Do you think her press conference’ll go okay tonight?” she asked.

  “Well—” he looked around for a good place to put the player/recorder down—“she’ll certainly have a receptive audience.”

  “People don’t—blame her?” Meg asked. “I mean, you know, the country.”

  “I think people empathize,” he said, starting to set the machine up. “They know how much all of you have gone through.” He paused. “Do you blame her?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t decided.”

  He nodded.

  Did she? Probably. Or not. “I don’t know,” she said, again. “It’d be kind of like blaming her for getting shot. Maybe it’s just—I don’t know. Bad luck.”

  He nodded, bending down to plug the machine in.

  “Real bad luck,” she said.

  “I’ll buy that one,” he said, straightening up.

  “Is her speaking tonight going to be a big deal?” she asked, pretty sure she already knew the answer.

  He just looked at her.

  Okay, that had been a dumb question. “Am I going to look—pathetic?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Are you kidding? Whether you know it or not, you’ve hit folk-hero time.”

  Meg blushed. “It’s not like I—”

  “Trust me on this one,” he said, double-checking the connections. “People want to grow up and be you.”

  Oh, right. “I’d advise against that, myself,” she said.

  “Well, just don’t worry about anyone thinking you’re pathetic.” He held up one of the plastic cases. “Want me to put in The Sound of Music?”

  Sort of—but, maybe she should save that. “How about one of the E! specials,” she said.

  He smiled. “Sure. Sounds great.”

  They were watching a behind-the-scenes exposé of an old ensemble drama, when her father and brothers came in with dinner.

  “Figures,” Steven said when he saw the television, then looked guilty.

  Meg, however, was amused. “Hey, you know me, I like to be on the cutting edge.” Of all of the latest gossip, anyway.

  Her father set up a tray of dinner on her sliding table: scrambled eggs, toast, butterscotch pudding, milk.

  “Um, thank you,” she said, as he handed her a fork.

  Her brothers, sitting on either side of a small table, were eating the exact same meal, obviously self-conscious. She took a small bite of the eggs, feeling pretty self-conscious herself.

  “What are we looking at here?” her father asked, indicating the television.

  Meg hesitated. “I was sort of thinking of watching The Sound of Music in a little while.”

  He nodded, checking his watch so subtly that she almost didn’t see him do it. Almost.

  The press conference. “Dad, I—” Was he going to be mad at her? “I really don’t want to,” she said. “I just—I’d rather not.”

  “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he said. “That’s what’s important.”

  “I’m comfortable with the Von Trapps,” Meg said.

  Her father smiled. A small smile, but unmistakable.

  Preston got up. “Tell you what. How about I go check it out, and report back?”

  “You can go, too, Dad. I mean, you know—” Meg gestured towards her brothers—“the three of us can just like, hang out.”

  Her father looked at them, then nodded. “We’ll be right down the hall,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “Call me if you need me.”

  When they were gone, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and it didn’t seem as though her brothers could, either.

  “Do you want anything, Meggie?” Neal asked, extra-polite.

  “No, I—” The fork was shaking in her hand again, and she put it down. “Um, no, thanks.”

  Neal looked concerned. “You should eat.”

  “Yeah.” She tried sipping some of her milk.

  “Does your leg feel better?” he asked.

  She nodded, although it felt pretty much the same. Worse, even.

  Then, Neal looked at the door. “We’re not supposed to ask you questions.” He jumped, and she could tell that Steven—who was just eating his dinner and not looking at either of them—had kicked him under the table.

  Meg glanced over at the door, too, to make sure they were alone. “I won’t tell them you asked any.”

  “Why don’t we just watch the stupid Sound of Music,” Steven said, eating.

  “I don’t care if he asks me stuff,” Meg said.

  Steven ignored her, scowling across the table at Neal. “Just shut up and eat.”

  Meg scowled at him. “He can ask me whatever he wants.”

  “I don’t want to,” Neal said quickly.

  Meg sighed. “Well, obviously, you do, or you wouldn’t—” But, she shouldn’t yell at him. If she was going to yell at someone, it should be Steven. “Look,” she said, more calmly. “I don’t mind if you ask me stuff. I would kind of prefer it, if you want to know the truth.”

  Neal shook his head.

  “I would prefer it,” she said. Less calmly.

  He checked the door. “Was it scary?”

  If they weren’t supposed to ask questions, then she probably wasn’t supposed to answer them. Or, anyway, she shouldn’t tell the truth. “I was alone, mostly,” she said.

  Steven held out his dish of pudding. “You want this, Neal, or what?”

  “I’m talking, Steven, okay?” Meg said, irritated.

  Steven slapped the dish down. “Yeah, well, he’s not supposed to bother you.”

  Meg frowned at him. “You’re supposed to make me feel like you’re glad I’m back.”

  “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, “okay?”

  This time, Neal kicked him.

  “Yeah, well, act like it,” Meg said, “okay?”

  “Okay,” Steven said.

  “Good,” Meg said, and it was such a typical way for them to argue, that she had to grin. “Look, can’t you just pretend like I was in a car accident or something, and you’re waiting for me to get better is all?”

  Steven actually cracked a smile, too. “Yo, Meg, you talk excellent .”

  They both laughed, Neal joining in a little late.

  “Neal, do me a favor,” she said. “Go out there and ask someone to get us some Doritos and Coke and Twinkies and all.”

  He looked uneasy. “Are we—”

  “We’re allowed,” she said. “Hurry it up, so we can watch the movie.”

  Neal stopped by the door. “Fritos, too?”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever you want,” Meg said. Expansively. “Also, if they sell hats there, can you ask them if they can get me like—a little cap or something? I hate my hair being like this.”

  Neal looked anxious, but nodded, leaving the room.

  Since they were all in a good mood now, Meg decided not to start trouble. Even though there were probably things Steven knew that he could—

  “I wish it had been me,” he said, his voice startling her.

  “No, you don’t.” Meg shook her head. “Believe me, you don’t.”

  His expression was somewhat offended, and even more uneasy.

  “I don’t mean that you wouldn’t be—” She sighed. “It was terrible. I mean, really terrible.”

  He glanced at her leg, then quickly away. “Because of stuff they did to you?”

  “Oh, hell, I looked forward to him coming in,” she said, without thinking. “I mean—” She stopped, realizing how that sounded. “I don’t mean I wanted them to—at least then, I had someone to talk to.”

  Steven turned to make sure the door was still closed. “Did they look scary?”
>
  Her parents were right; she didn’t want to answer questions. “He looked regular,” she said. “I mean—he could have been anyone.” Anyone at all. Someone they knew, even.

  “Did they speak English?” he asked.

  “Very well.” She grinned slightly. The man had been a god-damn grammarian. “Exceedingly well.”

  “Were they—” Steven started.

  Neal came back in, smiling happily. “They said they’d buy everything!”

  “You know I’m going to get my way for about the next hundred years,” Meg said to Steven, who made a sound that was close to a laugh.

  “That mean we have to watch this damn thing?” he asked, getting up to put the movie in.

  “We’ll have to watch it repeatedly,” Meg said, Neal laughing. “Hey, fatso,” she said to him. “You want to sit up here with me?”

  Neal hung back. “We’re not—”

  “I know you’re not supposed to,” she said. “You want to do it, anyway?”

  He didn’t move.

  “Come on, already,” she said, impatiently, indicating the left side of the bed.

  He stayed where he was. “Will I hurt your leg?”

  She shook her head, and he climbed over the railing—which, yeah, hurt—but, it was nice to have someone sitting with her. Less like being in the zoo.

  “We ready?” Steven asked, holding the remote.

  Meg nodded. “Play it, Sam.”

  “If she can stand it, I can,” Steven said to Neal, and turned on the movie.

  Maria was just running into the Abbey when Dr. Brooks, a nurse, and a corpsman arrived with the food. Seeing them, Meg felt guilty.

  “Am I allowed to eat this stuff?” she asked.

  “I’m just happy to see you have an appetite,” Dr. Brooks said, as the corpsman unpacked a grocery bag full of junk food and the nurse gave each of them a plate, some napkins, and a glass full of ice, pouring them some soda as they nodded polite thank-yous.

  Dr. Brooks smiled, taking a cap out of the bag and handing it to her. “Oh, your—hat.”

  An Orioles cap. Yuck. Meg grinned sheepishly, and put it on. “Thank you.”

  “It was all they could find,” he said.

  “It’s great,” Meg said. Having it on—whether it looked stupid or not—was a tremendous relief.

  The nurse and the corpsman left, and Dr. Brooks folded the empty bag, sticking it under his arm. Then, he ruffled Neal’s hair. “Watching the movie with your sister?”

  Neal nodded, starting to get off the bed.

  “No, it’s all right. Just be careful.” Dr. Brooks gestured towards Meg’s knee. “Much pain?”

  “It’s okay,” she said. Which was a lie.

  He looked at his watch. “Well, I’ll come back in about an hour, see how you are.”

  She nodded. Nothing like having life revolve around the next pain pill.

  “What do you want first, Meggie?” Neal asked, as Dr. Brooks headed towards the hall.

  “Twinkies,” Steven said, already eating one.

  Meg grinned. “Doritos,” she said. “Definitely Doritos.”

  22

  THEY ATE A lot. Enough so that by the time the Von Trapps were singing at the Salzburg Festival, Meg was having trouble staying awake. Of course, she’d been up for—gosh—five or six whole hours now. And the Demerol or Vicodin or whatever the hell it was that they were giving her, wasn’t helping matters any.

  “You want to watch another?” Steven asked.

  Meg jerked awake. “What?” She must have missed the ending. “I mean, yeah, I guess.” Neal was asleep, too, leaning against her, and she maneuvered her arm enough to put it around him. “Mary Poppins?”

  Steven groaned, but got up to put it in.

  As the movie started—a dark London skyline, with the familiar soundtrack, Meg smiled. Musicals were so—sweet. So swell.

  She looked around, waking up a little more. “Wasn’t Dad in here?”

  “Before, yeah,” Steven said.

  “Where’d he go?” she asked, noticing that it was dark, except for the small light over near where the nurses usually sat.

  Steven shrugged. “To wait for Mom, I think.”

  “Oh.” She looked up at the movie, at Bert singing and dancing in the park. “Did we talk about the press conference?”

  Steven shook his head. “You were sleepy.”

  She was still sleepy. But, now that she thought about it, Bert must have been one of her very first crushes. Her grandfather—it would have been a couple of years before he died—had even given her a little striped blazer, a straw hat, and a cane, so she could do the Bert Dance. Steven was a baby, so he had only gotten a hat. Once, she had taken some ashes from the fireplace to do a chimney sweep dance, but her parents’ reaction—to say nothing of Trudy—had been less than enthusiastic.

  “How come Trudy isn’t here?” she asked.

  “Because Jimmy’s still in the hospital,” Steven said. “I think she’s coming on Sunday. Neal was on the phone with her for like, a really long time today.”

  Jimmy was her son, and—oh, wait, he had had a kidney transplant. “Was his surgery okay?” she asked.

  Steven pulled over the mostly-empty Fritos bag and ate a few. “Dad says yeah.”

  Okay, that was good. He had been on dialysis for a long time.

  “Can’t believe I like, know all these words,” Steven said, as Mrs. Banks sang the “Suffragette’s Song.”

  Meg nodded. “Mom used to sing this.”

  “Yo, no way,” he said.

  Yep. “English accent, and everything,” she said. “She was always singing musicals’ stuff.”

  Steven frowned. “I totally don’t remember.”

  “Yeah, well, it was a long time ago,” Meg said stiffly.

  Steven started to say something, then just looked at the television.

  By the time her parents came in, Steven had fallen asleep, too, and Meg was, foggily, watching Julie Andrews sing “Feed the Birds.” Her father gently picked Neal up, carrying him out of the room, while her mother bent down to kiss her.

  “How do you feel?” she whispered.

  Meg shrugged, half-asleep.

  “Do you want to keep watching the movie?” her mother asked.

  Meg shook her head. “I’m pretty tired.”

  Her mother clicked off the machine, pausing to kiss Steven, too, before returning to the side of the bed.

  “How’d it go?” Meg asked.

  “A lot of people care about you,” her mother said. “Even more than you know.”

  Whatever that meant. Meg let her eyes close partway. “What time is it?”

  “Past midnight,” her mother said.

  Her father came back in, taking Steven out of the room.

  “Do you guys sleep down there, too?” Meg asked. Although mostly, they seemed to do all of their sleeping sitting up in chairs.

  Her mother nodded.

  “When can we go home?” Meg asked.

  Her mother paused, before answering. “Soon, I hope.”

  In other words, not any time soon.

  “I know,” her mother said. “I’m sorry.”

  She was curious about the press conference, but she also felt like going back to sleep. She wasn’t exactly tired, but the pills made her feel—funny. Slow.

  Her mother seemed to be saying something, and Meg looked up.

  “I was just wondering if you wanted anything,” her mother said.

  Philosophically, an ironic question. Meg shook her head, noticing that her mother didn’t look like she was in very good shape, either. “You guys don’t have to, you know, stay up with me.”

  Her mother, about to sit in the chair by the bed, stopped. “Do you want privacy?”

  Did she? “I just meant you should maybe get some normal sleep, and not—” She indicated the chair.

  “Your father and I feel better being in here,” her mother said, and sat down.

  Since it was their decision,
Meg wasn’t about to argue. “What time did you say it was?”

  Her mother turned her wrist to look at her watch. “A little after twelve-thirty.”

  “Oh.” Meg glanced at the telephone. Twelve-thirty was pretty late.

  “Would you like to call Josh?” her mother asked. “Or—”

  “I kind of thought I’d call Beth,” Meg said. Which she hadn’t realized she’d been thinking until she heard herself say it. “Only, I guess it’s too—”

  “I think you should,” her mother said. “You’ll both feel better.”

  Meg tilted her head curiously. “You mean, you’ve talked to her?”

  Her mother shook her head. “Your father did, at one point. I assume Preston has, too.”

  “Oh.” Weird. “That was nice of them.” She looked, uneasily, at the phone. “I can’t call this late—you know how her stepfather is.”

  Her mother shrugged. “We’ll have someone place the call for you.”

  Which might make things even worse, given her stepfather’s tendency towards conservatism. “No,” Meg said. “I mean, I don’t want it to be a big deal, I just—”

  Her mother moved the telephone onto the bed. “Why don’t you just go ahead and call.”

  Meg reached for it, then pulled back. “Will the FBI or someone be listening in?”

  “No,” her mother said. “They very definitely will not.” She got up. “If you need anything, we’ll be outside.”

  “Oh.” Meg looked at the window in pretended confusion. “Do I like, open that and yell out?”

  “What?” Her mother looked genuinely confused, then smiled. “Right,” she said, and gave Meg’s hand a squeeze before leaving the room.

  Once she was alone, Meg put down the handset, and looked at it some more. It was pretty late. Only, if she sat around, it was going to be even later. She picked up the receiver again, flinching when she heard a voice say, “How may I help you?” A White House operator, or someone.

  “Were you on there before?” Meg asked. “Did I like, hang up on you?”

  “Of course not,” the man said, sounding as overly kind as everyone was being to her. Not that White House switchboard people were ever rude. “Would you like me to ring a number for you?”

  “Uh—” She had to make a decision here. “Yeah, I mean—please.” Meg gave him the number, the call going through damn near instantly. Extra-special fiber optics, presumably. She probably should have called her cell, instead of calling the house directly—but didn’t want to go to voice-mail, which was likely, after midnight.