The choice itself is made so swiftly I don’t even notice it. She pulls me to my feet (still avoiding my eyes, unwilling to explain) and guides me to the door, the only evidence of the exchange the strange boy trailing behind us, shaking hands of congratulation. He drives us home in his Lexus and walks me to my room, like I’m an elderly relative. He shuts the door before I have the chance to say goodnight.
Because of these stilted endings to our evenings, I come to love our Grimly nights most of all, even if Trevor throws a fit because we aren’t on the guest list, even if Jon puts his arm around Regan, squeezing me out. I create elaborate schemes to ensure that tonight will be a Grimly night, that we’ll fall asleep together on Pinkerton’s couch, that Regan will be mine through to the end. I find I’ll do anything to avoid the nights of separation when I sit immobile in the kitchen (sometimes going so far as to listen at her door), overcome with fury that she’s taken him inside and left me out.
Then comes a two month period where Trevor’s parents (revolting people) are in Greece, and night after night we’re drawn to the Grimly Mansion on Grafton Square. Just like that all my worries dissolve. Every night Regan and I sleep in the same bed, whispering into the darkness until our voices seem to become one and we fall asleep still murmuring, our arms around each other. The other boys, the bedroom boys, fade into the background, and I gather Regan in my arms (squeezing her hand twice: You are here. You are mine) and hold on tight.
It doesn’t take long for the boys to mutiny. They leave messages at all times of day: at the strike of dawn when it would be laughable for us to be home; in the middle of the afternoon, during Library hours, when we listen to their deep baritones echoing through our rooms; at eleven p.m., when we’re on our way out after a brief stop to change our clothes, their voices drowned out by the bustle and the slam of the door as we go.
We never answer the phone anymore.
They’re surprisingly persistent. The same names, the same voices call every single day, leaving near-identical messages each time, almost as if they know we aren’t listening, that we’re erasing them as they speak.
The weather finally clears, the sparkling sky promising pleasant winter afternoons, but Regan and I are still trapped inside. We’re besieged by the boys who band together, forming small coalitions of three and four, all desperately in search of Regan.
I become an expert at spotting them. In the grocery store (which we seldom frequent, our cupboard so bare that we’ve taken to storing the linens on the empty shelves), I pull Regan into the vegetable aisle, pointing out the barricade of boys near the breads, and only narrowly steering us clear of the weepy French Lit. major readying to ambush us in the frozen foods section. We abandon our shopping cart and sneak out the back way.
Other times we aren’t so lucky, as when we go to the trouble to arrive home midmorning, stumbling and sleepy, only to find Owen and Kendal Cloverdale (twins) sipping coffee on our front stoop, frozen flower bouquets in their laps.
There is no escaping them. They know all our habits, all our hiding places, and they won’t be ignored. Still we try, our darting eyes continually searching for the exit, our limbs locked together, terrified they might try to tear us apart (because isn’t that their intention? To part us, to break our bond? Why else would they hide in the dumpsters? What else could they possibly want?).
Regan doesn’t like to be caged. She starts smoking in The Apartments (something she’s never done before), lighting a joint as I coax her to eat. She urges me to join her, but I refuse, which isn’t easy for her to take. (It gives me a headache, I explain, and she fixes me with a look of utmost betrayal, reluctantly letting my hand slip from hers as I move into the living room to escape the smoke.) Once stoned she’s willing to face the rebellious males on the street, sticking her head out the window to hear and compile their complaints (mostly variations of the same: you promised, you told me, you said so, etc; but you weren’t, you didn’t, you wouldn’t, etc; I want you, I need you, I love you, etc).
As for myself, I’m loyal to Regan, facing or ignoring them as she does, willing to go miles out of our way to avoid them, though privately I’m sympathetic to their plight (because I know how it feels to want to be around her, and I can’t help asking myself, staring at my reflection in the rusting bathroom mirror, What have I done?).
Jon screams, Godammit, Chem! and lunges at the door, attacking it with all his limbs in an impressive display of coordination, one hand wrenching at the knob while the other pounds, his feet (clad in dainty white leather loafers) kicking and bracing, the heels scuffing the highly varnished floor. All in all he gives the impression he’s wrestling with an invisible elephant—that is until we hear the snap.
He’s broken the pinky on his left hand.
Whimpering, he slumps against the door cradling his entire arm, and I watch Regan watching him, her eyes following his slow descent to the floor of the hallway.
Jon says, his voice shaking, When I get my hands on him, I’m going to kill him. I’ll do it this time, Regan. I will.
And Regan, her eyes sunken with exhaustion, nods faintly.
The trouble that started it all (although I suppose you could argue that the trouble with Jon and Chem started many years before, on a day in the grade four schoolyard, when Jon was crowing over a touchdown, holding up the football for all to see, and Chem pulled down his pants) took place at Trevor’s house the night before, when a drunken Jon lost a ridiculous bet to Chem, who was more than happy to collect his prize.
Jon had bet away his keys.
It should have been a forfeit! Jon raged early this morning when he burst into Regan’s bedroom as we slept (side by side in our party dresses; hers red, mine blue).
Jon, it’s very early, Regan said as she rubbed her eyes. (And how exactly had he gotten in anyway? When I ask Regan later, she answers wearily, Sometimes he climbs up the fire escape).
Are you deaf? Jon demanded, slamming around the room, smacking every available surface with an open hand. Chem is a thief! He stole from me. It was a wrongful bet. I was stoned! (his sentences short and clipped, like he was reading from a badly written script).
But, don’t you think… Regan began, her voice calm and reasoning.
GET UP! Jon roared, before striding out of the room.
Regan burrowed back under the covers, her face next to mine on the pillow.
Do we have to go? I moaned. (We’d only gone to bed two hours before.)
Jon let out an incoherent yell from the kitchen.
Regan sighed, holding my gaze. (It was answer enough.)
What we learn during our interminable day of searching for Chem all over town (a pointless quest that begins at his loft in the Plateau and leads us to the old port, Chem’s father’s office, Pinkerton’s brother’s brownstone, the Chinese place he likes, two out-of-date hangouts, and finally to Jon’s own building on Sherbrooke street) is that Chem wasn’t feeling charitable last night. Instead of doing the kindly thing and exchanging his own keys for Jon’s, he locked Jon out of his own apartment and hid his Jag.
Thief, Jon mutters as he fiddles with the lock, his injured hand pressed to his chest. Breaking in to my own apartment! he cries, turning an anguished face to Regan, who doesn’t notice. She’s looking out the hallway window, rhythmically bumping the heel of her boot against the wall (taking up a refrain I heard coming all day, from the very moment we stepped foot out of The Apartments.
At first, she was in top form, hanging onto Jon’s arm, helping him plot his revenge on Chem. She was at once firm and loving, disdainful and playful, watching for his reactions and turning on a dime, changing to suit the moment. I gave up trying to mimic her early on and simply watched in awe as she played helpless, then giddy, then sour; coaxing him, shaping him, trying to match her fury with his. I watched her do everything she could think of. I watched her wring herself dry, but to no avail. Jon would not be talked down.
As the day began to wane I noticed her withdrawing ever so slightly, b
locking out his encroaching need, his whiny pleading. I saw where it was going and I did nothing to stop it. I wanted to know once and for all what would happen when Regan had had enough).
The lock will not be picked. It’s unpickable. Jon stamps his foot in frustration and then screams at the doorknob, Are you in there you little ferret? Are you? ARE YOU?
He shoves his shoulder into the door with all his force and lets out a growl of frustration that goes on and on, like the revving of a racecar engine. (I grit my teeth to stop from slapping him).
Regan puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder, quieting him, and then stands up straighter for a moment and cocks her head. Then, I hear it too. Someone down on the street is calling Jon’s name.
Regan gives me a quick glance, then slings her arm around Jon’s shoulder, teasing, distracting. I step over to the window, trying to block the view with my body. It’s Chem, standing in the road in his ridiculous puffy red jacket, here to taunt Jon in his humiliation. (We should have known if we’d only stood still long enough Chem would come to us, the stupid fool. He’d never pass up the chance to see Jon defeated).
I shake my head, trying to shoo Chem away discreetly, but it’s no use. He won’t go, and Jon is already on high alert. Even with Regan regaling him, loudly, with her best imitation of a drunk Pinkerton, he senses Chem nearby. He knows.
Jon lunges at the window, elbowing me aside. He flings it open. Where are my keys? he bellows into the cold night air.
Chem dangles the keys from his finger. I can hear them tinkling. Didn’t think to call the Super? he calls back, making a sad clown face. (Jon’s look of astonished realization lasts only long enough for me to notice it.)
With a furious snarl, Jon screams, You’re dead! then turns from the window, regarding us both with dancing eyes (commanding Regan to follow with a single glance). As he flies down the stairs toward the door, I watch Regan drift to the stairwell then pause at the top step, her eyes lowered, resigning herself.
Aren’t you coming? she asks over her shoulder.
I reach up to close the window, cutting off the flow of frigid air. Through the frosted glass I can see Chem standing proudly on the curb, his hands clasped behind his back. I can see Jon’s precious Jag parked innocently by the curb, as if it had been there all along. And I can also see the shifting shadows further off, the figures hulking in the dark. They’re careful, they keep back, but I’ve spotted them. The street is teeming with them.
The boys have found us.
I step away from the window and meet Regan’s eyes. Two floors below, we hear the door slam open and closed as Jon bounds out of the building. We hear him shrieking at Chem. I feel a surge, like a damn breaking, and all I can think is, they’re coming, they’re coming, and what will Jon do when he sees them?
Regan doesn’t have to ask. She sees the expression on my face and it’s like her strings have been cut, her legs chopped at the knee. She sags against the wall and as I catch her she says into my ear, her voice soft as a sigh, Not now.
I have to help her down the stairs.
We catch up with Jon halfway up the street, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Chem has wisely crossed to the other side of the busy boulevard, though he stays in view, smiling winningly, still dangling the keys. I want to punch him in the face.
Regan leans against me heavily. She looks dazed, glazed almost, and I wonder fleetingly if she might have swallowed a pill as we came down the stairs (it wouldn’t be the first time). I yank the hood of her wool jacket over her head and glance over my shoulder, breathing out steam. The boys are still in the shadows, but I feel them advancing. At least Jon hasn’t spotted them, yet.
I can’t deal with him anymore, Jon wheezes. He looks directly at Regan and I, his eyes bloodshot, his skin glistening. You deal with it, he says.
Regan raises her face from my shoulder and looks at him blankly. She doesn’t say a word.
Jon stands up, still clutching his gut. Regan, he explodes directly in her face, YOU DEAL WITH IT!
She doesn’t even flinch. I grasp her closer.
Darling, I say (and Jon adjusts his gaze slightly, moving it to my face, though it continues to dart back to Regan’s, incredulous at her lack of response). I say, calm down.
Yeah, Jonny, Chem calls. Don’t work yourself into a tizzy.
Jon seems about to retort when he spots something over my shoulder. I close my eyes briefly, a sinking feeling in my gut. Then I take a deep breath and start walking up the street, away from the boys, away from Jon. (I figure we might as well get a head start.)
What’s all this? Jon demands as he takes in the dozens of college boys flooding around us on both sides. Hey Regan, one of them calls, his voice jeering, Want to come home with me?
Get away! Jon screams, running at a line of boys who scatter like frightened birds.
Regan bites at the inside of her lip, but otherwise shows no emotion. She walks on, her hand in mine, refusing to look Jon in the face.
Why do you let them follow you around like this? he demands, grabbing Regan by the arm so forcefully that she nearly falls. I notice Chem watching us from across the street, the smile finally wiped from his face.
I step closer to Regan, my shoulder against hers, and her fingers tighten around mine.
Jon says, What do you need them for?
What do you care, Jon? I ask, my voice deadly. It hardly sounds like my voice at all.
We take care of you, he goes on, walking backwards to keep in front of us. We’re your family. We love you. What do you need them for?
Then he stops and takes Regan’s chin in his good hand, pulling her toward him. She looks at him reluctantly, angrily (and I feel the same in turn, standing just behind her. I can almost feel his hand on my skin, feel the rough pad of his thumb stroking my cheek).
He says, You belong to us.
I put my hands around Regan’s waist and pull her backwards, out of Jon’s reach. His hand remains extended, empty. She turns her back on him and faces me, staring numbly at the buttons on my coat. I raise my chin and level my gaze, unblinking, on Jon’s face.
I say, We’ll see about that.
The last time I see the Grimly Men of Grafton Square is on a Friday at the beginning of April, and the circus is in town.
I wake up in Regan’s bed alone, amazed she’s gotten up before me (she who sleeps the sleep of the dead until noon), and wander, yawning, into the kitchen. She’s smoking at the table, her knees pulled up to her chest, her face turned to the sunlight pouring through the window. I pull a robe off the back of her chair, and put it on.
I can’t go, she says, without turning around. She takes a long haul and exhales it at the window, her fingers tapping on the edge of the table, her knees bobbing.
I run my fingers through her hair. Oh? I say lazily.
The sun is warm on my face and I don’t have any idea what she’s talking about. Regan’s been erratic these past few days, taking me shopping (shopping for god’s sake), dragging me to museums (to rush briskly past the displays), scheduling hair cuts and manicures for us both. It’s as if she’s just discovered there are certain things that can only be done during the day and is intent on doing each one, in alphabetical order. She’s even started paying more attention to the bedroom boys (and when I ask her why, when I’m suspicious of her sudden charity, she only shrugs at me and smiles. Might as well keep busy, she says. Might as well join in the fun).
I can’t go tonight, Regan repeats.
A night in? I say, crossing to the fridge. What a novel idea (though I imagine Pinkerton might be a little disappointed. We’re scheduled to view the penthouse suite of the hotel his father just acquired. He’s very excited—a state of being which, in Pinkerton, is both intriguing and frightening to witness).
I pick up an expired container of tofu, then replace it and ask Regan if she got any milk.
We’re off dairy, she says and stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray we stole from one of Trevor’s guest r
ooms. You’re not listening to me, she says.
I place a pint of ice cream on the table and hand her a spoon. We’re not going, I say, licking my fingers. I heard you.
No, Regan says, you didn’t.
Something about the way she’s speaking is strange, as though she’s been rehearsing the conversation. I sit down in the chair beside her as she takes away my spoon and grasps my hand with both of hers. Her hair is tousled from sleep and falls in wide loops around her ears.
I can’t go tonight, she says slowly, but you can. She pats my hand. Yes you can, she says.
I blink at her, the sunlight shining all around us, frost icing the edges of the window panes so prettily. By myself? I ask (because surely she’s joking. She doesn’t expect me to go, to be Regan, alone).
She lets go of my hand, leaving me grasping, and turns back to the window.
And we’re off dairy, she says, shoving the carton of ice cream away.
For the rest of the day I’m stricken. I try to recall the last time I went anywhere without Regan, but can’t. (It was a Tuesday, actually, around Valentine’s Day. I went out to get toothpaste but forgot what I needed when I got to the store.) I follow Regan around mindlessly, pacing with her in the Library, even sitting on the toilet while she showers, unwilling to let her out of my sight.
What will I say to them? I ask as she towels her hair. What if they notice?
They won’t notice, she replies.
What if they’re disappointed? I ask desperately (if only to catch her attention, to force her to take pity on me and reconsider).
She pulls me over to the mirror and hugs me from behind, her chin on my shoulder, her face coupling mine. How could they be? she says.
That night, as I go out the door, I glance back at Regan. She’s wearing a sweatshirt of mine and an old pair of leggings. I look down at my outfit, the sleek dress, the pointy-toed boots, the tailored wool coat. (Who am I? Who are you?)
The Grimly Queen Page 5