Regan is effortless. She never disappoints. No matter how dull the conversation or how impossibly needy or weepy or slimy they get, Regan never turns away, never throws up her hands, never refuses to consume their problems (truly amazing me with her interest, her perpetual concern for these pathetic souls. How do you do it? I yearn to ask. How can you stand it? And Regan, always a step ahead, answers, How can I turn them away?).
On our third loop through the kitchen I begin to feel light-headed. The candlelight dazzles my eyes, the squeals of delight over Regan’s hair make my ears ring. I become confused. Didn’t we just meet this same gaggle of girls in the front hall? Haven’t we already gone over the cheerleader’s nervous breakdown, the wallflower’s one-night-stand, Mandy Callahan’s abundant cleavage? Clinging more heavily to Regan’s arm, I become a zombie, following without purpose. Are we running, tripping, or is that only me? Do we whisk our way through bedrooms, smoky and flickering with TV light, full of bare-chested boys and waify girls, someone half-asleep calling after us (Regan? Was that Regan Lathie? Regan I swear, man, you should have been there. Regan, you gotta try this. Regan stay with us!). Do I imagine this? Do I imagine us turning back for one last haul, one last kiss, for one last check that nobody was ignored?
As the party winds down (or rather as Trevor runs through the rooms, ordering his guests to leave), I watch Regan begin to wilt. With every goodbye, every promise to keep in touch, I see her enthusiasm falter, notice her pace slowing and her arm becoming a weight. The curls we put in her yellow tresses slip away like raindrops falling off leaves.
Are you alright? I ask (the first words I’ve spoken in hours). Regan straightens her back with a wince.
It’s not over yet, she says, and forces a smile.
With Trevor’s petulant whine echoing at our backs, we pass through a number of abandoned rooms (the bedcovers wrinkled, the tables littered with crumpled napkins and empty plastic cups) and finally find ourselves in the dining room.
(And it is here of all places that I see her clearly for the first time, the Regan I’ve glimpsed only sporadically in witty comebacks and overheard telephone conversations, the Regan I’ve been chasing ever since I moved in.)
I stumble coming through the doorway and loose my hold on her. She goes on without me.
A boy cries, Regan, finally you are here!
She advances into the light shed by the candles set among the wine glasses and bottles, beer cans and ashtrays. This boy (the same one I last saw outside a dorm in boxers and a tuxedo jacket) is wearing a T-shirt and necktie with jeans, but no shoes or socks. He puts his arm around Regan’s waist, pulling her closer (and my hands clench into fists, loosening, though only partially, when she hugs him back).
Done mingling with the commoners? he asks.
Yes, Regan, chimes in Pinkerton (or Simpson or Brandon or Layton). He smacks his hand on the table and gives Chem a stern look, alerting him to his rolling chips. He says, How go your queenly duties?
He doesn’t seem to care if she answers, and she doesn’t.
Now for the important business, the first boy continues. (His name is Jon. I later learn he’s known Regan since kindergarten and dated her, briefly, back when she used to date, but she broke it off when he asked her to marry him. They never speak of it.) Jon says, Who is the better pool player, me or Chem?
Oh do play on, Jonathan! says Pinkerton (who has no interests outside of poker and his father’s hotel chains. Pinkerton is very rich, very fat, and very impatient.)
I am awaiting Regan’s answer, Jon says, kissing her hand. Regan smiles blandly and smoothes his unruly hair.
Chem, she answers quietly, removing Jon’s arm from her waist and taking a seat. Chem snickers. Unbelievable! Jon splutters.
Well, if you’re going to insist on playing drunk, Regan says, unperturbed. She busies herself lighting a joint (the first I’ve ever seen her smoke).
Yes, more drinks! Pinkerton cries. Play on!
I’m speechless! Jon exclaims.
If only, Chem mutters.
What was that, darling? Regan asks, blowing smoke over her shoulder.
If only he were speechless, Chem clarifies. (A character, that Chem is. No real personality to speak of, but good at pissing Jon off, which earns points. Stinking rich, of course.)
Jon fastens his eyes on Chem and refuses to play on (to Pinkerton’s thorough irritation) until he apologizes, which he won’t until Jon acknowledges his superior skill at billiards.
And chess as well, Pinkerton adds.
Jon whirls around. Since when are you on his side? he demands Well, you are crap at chess.
Boys, please, Regan intones.
Trevor strides into the room (brushing past me without a glance), his striped shirt untucked, his eyes ablaze. Behind him trails Annabelle (who Regan comforted for two-thirds of an hour earlier as she wailed over Trevor’s cheating ways, his temper tantrums, his foul drinking habits, and his inability to break away from his parents [revolting people]). She establishes herself on the couch by one of the two fireplaces and I follow her unconsciously, unable to take my eyes from the show. I feel unhinged, as though some essential part of my life depends on the outcome of Jon and Chem’s ongoing argument over who is better, who is faster, and who got there first.
Trevor, why do you play this music? Regan asks as he climbs onto the table and takes up a beer, gulping the entire thing down. (Annabelle sighs audibly and folds her arms over her chest.)
The sound system is all the way at the other end of the house, Trevor snaps. Would you like to go? I can draw you a map.
Yes, do go, Pinkerton says. And play on!
Did you play my hand while I was gone? Trevor demands of the group. Jon and Chem look at the ceiling (beautiful mural, cherubs) and Regan lights another joint.
You left your cards face up, Pinkerton answers, oblivious to Trevor’s rage (though when is Trevor not in a rage, really?). You lost twenty bucks.
What did I tell you? Trevor roars.
(At this point Annabelle pulls her knees to her chest and begins rocking back and forth, her long red hair draped all around her like a poncho.)
Simmer, Jon says as Trevor thows down his cards and gets on his knees on the table, preparing (one would assume) to leap onto Pinkerton. Jon says, Regan is here. Regan will rule.
All the boys turn to Regan (who up until then had been blowing smoke circles in the air). She regards them placidly. What is it? she asks.
Tell me, Regan, Trevor begins, clearly struggling to remain composed, is it not absolute robbery for these men to play my hand while I’m away from the table for one minute?
And is it not absolutely your own fault for leaving your cards face up and your chips unguarded? Chem rebuts (in a dazzling display of balls, never again observed, for to battle Trevor is far different from battling Jon).
And is it not absolutely fucking time to play ON? Pinkerton cries.
Boys! Regan interrupts, leaning her elbows on the table and folding her hands in front of her. How I tire of this constant bickering. Isn’t it time you got past this? Or should I force you all to take a solemn oath never to argue again again?
Sorry, Regan, the boys murmur, bowing their heads in shame (though Pinkerton only ducks his face behind his cards).
Jon solemnly tugs on Regan’s sleeve as the others take up the game again. She leans towards him.
No bickering at all? Jon asks in a whisper, his eyes on Chem. What if that one does something Chem-like and it can’t be helped?
Regan smiles indulgently and kisses his forehead. She says, Then come to me and state your case, and I may release you.
From the oath he hasn’t yet taken? Chem inquires from across the table.
Oh, Regan, do crown one or the other the winner so we can play on, Pinkerton urges, his sweaty cards wilting in his hands.
And Jon is the winner, this round, Regan says grandly, to loud protest, and sits back in her chair.
(These boys are Regan’s inner cir
cle and have known her, individually and as a group, since grade school, which explains their forward manner with her [much different from that of the many other boys I meet this night], their easy annoyance and playful remarks. Regan favours them with more of her wit and attention than any of the others, becoming with them most fully the Regan I’ve heard tell of, her charm ever indulgent, her beauty ever bright. I name these boys The Grimly Men of Grafton Square, because they’re deserving of a title, and because at first I’ve no other way to keep them separate in my mind. Without a name they blend in with the rest of the faces, lost in the Regan-worshipping multitude. And frankly, they can be especially grim.)
Regan puts her feet in Jon’s lap under the table (though it isn’t a come-on. Regan doesn’t ever make the first move on a boy. She doesn’t have to) and closes her eyes. I realize I’ve been tottering on the edge of the couch for some time now and get to my feet, my thighs protesting loudly.
Be careful, Annabelle says, nodding sagely. Regan’s notorious for breaking hearts. She’s destroyed lives.
You don’t know anything about it, I say, startling her with my vehemence. Besides, I don’t have a life to destroy.
Lucky you, she replies and sinks back into the couch cushions. (And what becomes of her? I never see Annabelle again. I suspect she’s still sitting on that couch, waiting for Trevor to transform into the man she expects him to be, eternally waiting.)
I walk up to Regan (a bold move, as I haven’t been introduced, left to lurk, like a wild animal, outside the circle of light) and put my arms around her. The boys don’t even look up. She leans into me, her head warm and heavy with exhaustion. She closes her eyes.
Whose turn is it, Regan? Pinkerton asks.
Regan doesn’t answer. Has she fallen asleep? I jiggle her shoulder but she doesn’t respond (a refusal? An introduction?). She turns her face into my stomach.
Yours, I reply to Pinkerton.
Brilliant, he says.
Part 2
(This is the part where I disappear.)
It begins to snow, day after day, the drifts building up against the doors, the windows frosting over, the outside world frigid and forbidding. When we venture out, Regan and I keep tight hold of each other for fear of being lost in a sea of white so dense that for whole days it’s impossible to see across the street. I’m heavy with snow, buckling under the weight, unable to resist (and this is when I give in to the pull of general opinion, abandoning myself to Regan, allowing her to do with me what she will. I lose myself in the snow and am never quite able to find my way again).
I go out with Regan every night without fail, leaving behind my days of waiting and wondering, of watching her goings on from afar. I leap into her life without a thought, almost impatient to be, all at once, in over my head. She dresses me in her clothes (never suspecting my guilt as she proffers the garments I’ve already worn), bringing in a seamstress to alter whichever outfits I fancy. She takes me to parties thrown by un-Grimly people I’ve never met (and never meet), to clubs I’ve never heard of, unnamed and underground. We go to coffee houses to meet writing friends, to dance clubs, to hotel bars, and even once to a deserted park, late at night, always meeting someone, always greeting or greeted. The city, once a simple grid of streets and schools and stores, opens up to me while also complicating itself, transforming into a maze that only the cabs can navigate, and only with Regan to guide them.
Wherever we go, we never stay long. We glide through crowds of people, arms linked, blonde heads identically done up. When someone calls to her we turn, as one, and receive. We become the highlight of the evening, the name dropped the next morning in class. We become a single being, walking in step, dressed to match, our movements mirrored, our laughter timed to the second. Whenever I turn, Regan is there by my side. I don’t have to think, to determine, to perceive, because Regan is there. Regan is doing it for me.
My old life begins to seem like a dream. My parents call on a regular basis (though I never gave them my new number, never even told them I was leaving the dorm in the first place), each message I erase beseeching me for news, for a reply. I hardly recognize their voices. When old friends pass me in the halls with Regan they don’t recognize me with my confident stride, my playful expression, nor do I know them. (Was I ever that girl, that lonely bookish girl, her eyes lowered, her notes in order? I refuse to admit it.)
I begin to answer to Regan’s name, to forgo my surprise when strangers embrace us both, hardly noticing my extra body, taking it as a given that I am a part of Regan. I begin to mimic her responses, to find her words bubbling up at my lips as she says them, to anticipate her next move before she makes it.
One night, out with the Grimlys at a concert for a grungy band named after a piece of furniture (The Armchairs? The Sofabeds?), a drunken Trevor leans his head on my shoulder and asks me why I never tire of him.
At my side, Regan (who would normally cut in at this moment, taking on the full weight of the conversation) is distracted by Chem and Jon’s argument over which of them is a bigger anime enthusiast.
I pat Trevor on the arm affectionately. I answer, I tired of you long ago, didn’t you know?
Trevor laughs, openmouthed, and kisses me on the neck. And I though you didn’t love me, Regan, he says.
During the short days leading up to the long nights, Reagan and I make up our own routines (or were these routines already in place, and it’s only I that am added?). If we slept out, we stumble home at noon or two, picking ourselves out of the beds we fell into the night before, leaving doors ajar and footprints on the dusty floor.
When we arrive home, The Apartments scowls silently at us, hostile at our desertion, its furniture cold and unforgiving. Regan makes straight for the Library and I follow, no longer vexed by her writing stupor. I sprawl across the floor as she paces, her lips muttering words I never quite catch, supporting her notebook with one hand as she scribbles with the other. (The story itself [which she allows me to read though I’m hesitant, unwilling to break into a part of her life in which I don’t belong] is an ongoing narrative about an angry young man who has visions of a baby sister who drowned accidentally years before. And though I’m afraid to admit it even to myself, I find it somewhat rambling, full of run-on sentences and ever-lengthening plot lines. I fear Regan will never come to the end of it.)
As the day wears on, I encourage Regan to eat, to shower and change her clothes, to put her mind on other things. Sometimes she obeys, reluctantly, casting longing looks at the Library door as we eat (off the same plate). Other times she’s completely uncooperative and unmoving, even hanging onto the doorframe as I pull her away by force. Sometimes (though very rarely, hardly worth mentioning) she kicks and scratches, yanking me by the hair, forcing me to leave her there alone.
She always comes out, eventually.
If she has a class, we attend it together. I sit beside Regan in the stuffy classrooms, rarely paying attention, satisfied just to be there next to her. (Parting has become a trauma for us both and we don’t often allow it.) Nobody questions my presence. The teachers never look me in the eye. Only Regan shows any awareness of me, daringly whispering little jokes in my ear while the professor is speaking, rolling her eyes at me when the boys start to monologue. She holds my hand underneath the table and squeezes it every now and then, twice in quick succession, our secret code: You are here. You are mine.
As the weeks pass, I see a real change in Regan. She brightens considerably, throwing off her afternoon lethargy, even shortening her stints in the Library. She’s full of energy, always pulling me on to the next destination (and if I fall ill, if I complain of a headache, she comforts me. You aren’t sick, she tells me, smoothing my hair. If you were sick I’d know. If you were sick, I’d be sick too, and I feel fine. She puts her head on the pillow next to mine. She says, You’ll still come out with me, won’t you?). Only at the end of our evenings, when the boys begin to circle, does the old fatigue rear its ugly head.
It’s a s
ubtle dance. The first time I see it happen is on a night we spend without the Grimly Men (because this has nothing to do with them. Regan never shares her bed with a Grimly, one of the few rules she informs me of outright. It would mean too much to them, she says without the slightest conceit. It would tear them apart). We’ve been to a series of clubs on The Main, accompanied everywhere by a troop of beefy guys Regan calls her Muscle Guard. She met them at the wedding of someone named Greta, the sister of one of the beefs, who’s now divorced and shoots skeet as an outlet for her rage). I shadow Regan’s every movement, still unwilling to be left alone in this nightly world of hers (and Regan, too, keeps tight hold of me, always turning to be sure I’m there, always reaching for my hand, my sleeve, as though she’s the anxious one, instead of me).
Eventually we find ourselves on a leather couch in an apartment painted entirely gray. I’m trapped between the armrest and Regan, practically sitting in her lap, one of my legs thrown over hers and my head on her shoulder. I’m only half-awake. Most of the hangers-on have disbanded, leaving only Regan, me, and the Muscle Guard.
Their eyes, every pair of them, are riveted on Regan.
One of the boys sits down next to us, his hand slipping over her knee. Another hands her a drink, leaning forward to murmur something in her ear. (I hear the words “want” and “hands.”) I watch them dart forward and back, each one extending his offer, his desire, their movements like a current surrounding the two of us, ever fluctuating, their meaning clear (never for a moment considering she might not choose, might leave unaccompanied. Knowing she will choose because they need her to).
I turn to Regan, a question on my lips, confused by the dark and the quiet in the room. I take in her downcast eyes, the way she wets her lips over and over, the way she’s sitting, as though strapped down. My question dies in my throat.
She won’t meet my eyes.
(But why does she do it? Why does she humour them, when I’m sure she doesn’t want them, that if she does sleep with them [does she? Does she?] it isn’t what they think it is. It isn’t real, not to her. She gives them nothing but an empty victory and the right to brag. She gives them nothing and everything of herself.)
The Grimly Queen Page 4