The Grimly Queen

by Shayna Krishnasamy

  Abruptly, I turn back and crowd into the doorway beside her, gripping her familiar arm in my hand. You’ll be here when I get back, won’t you? I ask, bangles jangling at my wrists.

  She smiles a comforting smile, and says, I don’t have anywhere to go (which seems glaringly untrue. Regan could go anywhere. Regan could go everywhere).

  She leans forward and kisses me, softly, on the lips (a gasp escaping from my mouth into hers).

  I’ll be waiting for you, she says, and I stumble away.

  The hotel Pinkerton’s father acquired has a lobby made of marble. Chem (who picks me up on a motorcycle he doesn’t have a license to drive) whispers little-known facts about the place into my ear as we cross to the elevators: that a Russian drug lord once fell to his death from a 23rd floor balcony; that in 1985 the kitchen was set on fire by the son of one of the maids who kept her place by doing sexual favours for Pinkerton’s great uncle, the former owner; and that there are a number of interconnecting rooms on the seventh floor that are never officially occupied, their doors perpetually locked from the inside.

  And how is it you know all this? I ask, my voice light and mocking (as I imagine Regan’s would be).

  He answers, The year my father cut me off I worked here as a bellboy.

  I grin as the elevator doors close us in. Poor Chem, I tease, did they have a good benefit plan?

  Chem punches the button for the 30th floor and turns to me, intent. Watch out for Jon tonight, he says (the only time that night, or at any other time, that I’m sure I’m being seen as me, not as Regan). Chem says, He hasn’t forgotten.

  As the elevator pings its way up the floors, I quietly reply, Neither have I.

  My plan for the evening is simple enough: be Regan. Still, my alarm begins to border on panic as the moment of my debut approaches (because, all delusions aside, I am not Regan. I’m only an awkward girl in pinching boots and a borrowed dress. I am not the Grimly Queen, and they will know).

  The elevator doors slide open slowly. Standing across from us, leaning glumly against the wall, is a Pierrot clown (complete with white ruff and shift, black skull cap, dainty shoes and a mandolin). He’s smoking a cigarette. I glance at the curlicued 30 hanging above Pierrot’s head, then back at him, then at Chem, who gives a puzzled shrug. He takes my hand and heads toward the single door at the end of the hall.

  Before we have the chance to knock, the door is jerked open. A curly-haired girl in a high school uniform (her kilt barely covering her spindly thighs) stops short in the dark doorway, surprised. She’s wearing a red clown nose. Behind her there’s a flurry of tulle and feathers and a sudden cheer is followed by a rash of enthusiastic clapping. This tease is all we get, as the room itself is blocked from view.

  I glance at Chem. (Could we be in the wrong building?)

  You can come in, you know! the schoolgirl cries, a look of exasperation on her face.

  She isn’t addressing us, though it takes me a moment to realize it. I glance over my shoulder. Pierrot hunches his shoulders and puffs away.

  He refuses to come in, the schoolgirl says. She flicks one of her long curls in irritation. Not that I care, she continues. I’m only opening the door as a favour to Uncle Walter. He said I could drive his car later.

  It’s a Porsche, she adds.

  Of course, I manage to reply as Chem stares at her, mute.

  She leans on the door with an exaggerated sigh, the perfect picture of teenage dejection. Then she frowns, eyeing us. So, who are you? she asks.

  There you are! a deep voice calls. It’s Trevor, our saviour (who could have predicted it?), appearing like a mirage, his drink raised and dripping. He glares back at the invisible crowd with distaste, smoothing his leather jacket. Where on earth have you been? he demands.

  What the hell is going on? Chem asks, as a man on stilts ambles by (stooping to hand the schoolgirl and I felt roses).

  Oh, this? Trevor says. Bit of a mix-up. Our boy’s dad (the illustrious Walter) decided to throw an impromptu bash of his own, it seems. Invited the cast of the circus he saw with his nieces this afternoon.

  Next to me, the schoolgirl perks up, thrilled to be mentioned.

  He signs their paychecks, after all, Trevor says. It’s a god-awful mess. A bunch of investment bankers and their wives mingling with the carnies. My parents are here.

  Chem stifles a giggle.

  And yours, too, Trevor says pointedly.

  Oh, dear God, Chem moans.

  Trevor takes a loud gulp of his drink, then his eyes focus on me. His face creases with hope. Any luck? he asks.

  Are we still on this? Chems asks, peering around the doorframe to see if his parents are nearby.

  No, Trevor, I answer. No luck. I don’t remember her name. Chem doesn’t remember her name. Nobody remembers her name, not even you, though you slept with the poor thing. How’s Annabelle, by the way?

  Trevor gives me a sheepish look and doesn’t answer.

  (Trevor’s parents [revolting people] returned home only to discover that several of their four hundred dollar bottles of wine had gone missing in their absence. Trevor thinks the culprit is a redhead he slept with the night we ordered the twenty-five pizzas, until, months later, he recalls that he got drunk around mid-terms on some bottles he found at the back of the wine cellar, in their own locked compartment.)

  He says, It was something like Cynthia, or Samantha, or— The entryway is suddenly crowded as a group of acrobats in striped costumes bustle past, separating the schoolgirl and I from Chem and Trevor. The flow of bodily traffic stalls as they wait for the elevator.

  Trevor calls over their heads, Keep trying, alright? I know the name will come to you. You’re my only hope!

  He pulls Chem by the arm, already moving off toward the bar (and a part of me wants to cry out, Wait! To force them to come back and flank me on both sides, a nice thick protective bubble against the crowd. But, of course, that isn’t something Regan would do).

  Oh, and Regan, Trevor calls over his shoulder. Jon’s looking for you.

  I stand in the doorway, one foot in and one foot out, watching them go. It would be so easy to turn and flee. I could make some excuse. I could escape.

  Then I notice the schoolgirl staring at me, her mouth open, her eyes shining. I get it: she’s heard Regan’s name. Awe beams from her. (I have to admit, it’s just a little thrilling.)

  Emboldened, I take a breath and put my arm around her shoulder. We turn our attention back to poor Pierrot, still out in the hall. I ask, Do we really want him to come in?

  He’s nineteen, she whispers.

  Well come on, then, I say with a sly grin. She lets me pull her away from the door, ready to follow my command, to do whatever I wish (and this, I finally realize, is what it is to be Regan. It doesn’t really matter what I say or do. They’re already blinded with love for her. They’ve already signed up. I need only smile and show my face, and they will fall at my feet. I need only beckon, and they will follow).

  Come on, I say, and she trips after me. I’ll show you how it’s done.

  The room is uncomfortably dark, the recessed lights dimmed so low they glow orange, like dozens of tiny setting suns, emitting no warmth. In the immense roaring crowd, the schoolgirl and I squint in the dim, stumbling into the furniture. The noise is like an assault, the clinking of glasses overloud to my ears, the laughter inappropriately giddy. The schoolgirl holds my arm, her cloud of hair smelling of cantaloupe and roses (and I have a strong sense of having been here before, only this time I’m the one leading. This time I’m the one they will see).

  Faces emerge out of the dark like camera flashes, illuminating the larger party in glimpses. By the window we pass a man in street clothes wearing an immensely long plasticine nose, and a woman wearing peacock feathers in her hair, indigo and turquoise eye makeup, and a pantsuit. In the center of the room, I make out a figure who might be Pinkerton slouching in an armchair as two girls do identical one-handed handstands on the floor in front of him. A
third girl (in a skin-tight, sequined white leotard) stands nearby, laughing as one of the gymnasts wobbles. There are throngs of men in suits, drinking and clapping and pumping their fists, and women in heels with strained smiles and perfect hair. I see a young executive notice he’s lost a cuff link and stoop to find it just as a muscular boy in spandex does a spectacular back flip. He lands heavily on the young executive’s back. They both take a bow.

  It’s strange to be Regan in this discordant group of old men and busy performers. I’m unsure how to proceed. I feel my early air of assurance begin to dissipate, bewilderment taking its place. Miserably, I realize I’m not even getting a second glance. I don’t see anyone I know (and just as I realize this, the schoolgirl gives a delighted yip and whispers, Your were right! into my ear before she bounces into the arms of her Pierrot. She leaves me without looking back).

  The five-year-old Russian triplets are the most popular act by far, their trick with the red balls that float through the air like butterflies never failing to elicit a trill of excited exclamations, which only draws more guests their way. I have a terrible time squeezing past a hoard of their fans to reach the stairs. A few steps up and I can see over the heads of the crowd, all bald spots and glittery headdresses.

  I lean against the railing. Somebody hands me a drink. I don’t notice who. I tip up my chin and down it in one long gulp, searing my throat, warming my belly. (This is what Regan would do, isn’t it? She wouldn’t mind being left alone. Regan would make her own party within the party. Regan would be the party, and the people would flock to her.)

  I climb the winding staircase. The suite is even larger than I first thought, startlingly large, and as I goggle at the sight, I catch the toe of my boot on the stair, and stagger.

  But I don’t fall.

  There’s a hand on my arm, steadying me before I even realize I’ve tripped. There’s an arm extended, crooked at the elbow.

  A man’s voice says, Might I have the pleasure, Miss Lathie?

  There’s a hush at the sound of her name. I don’t so much hear it as feel it. It’s like a sudden rush of warmth. I feel my temperature rise, my cheeks redden.

  I turn to the man (some anonymous good-looking man with shining teeth and a crooked nose). I give him a dazzling smile.

  Of course, I breathe, and take his arm.

  The crowd doesn’t part. The crowd crowds. People converge on us, honing in, like a pack of wolves that’s caught the scent of blood, and I, for all my practice, can’t think how to control them. I cling to my man’s arm and take a breath. I wait for it to come.

  Their hands come out of the dark, squeezing my fingers and patting my back, touching and pinching and grasping. Then come their voices, high and excited, chattering and calling and crying out, the sound so loud and constant that my ears ring, my eyes water. Only one word emerges out of the din, its repetition rising above all the greetings and exclamations like a raft rising on a wave—just one word, a name, her name, my name: Regan, Regan, Regan, like an a cappella song, a chant, like a cry to the heavens.

  Their faces come last of all, a solid barrier of visage. I lose hold of the man’s arm and suddenly I’m in the midst of them, their hands turning me around and around, their adoration lifting me to the pinnacle, to the very top.

  (Is this what it’s like for Regan? This thrill of power, this all-consuming passion? This knowledge that I can have whatever I want, that they’ll give me anything, do anything? Is this what it is to be loved by all? Or is it something else, that single quiet moment as you reach the highest point, that singular realization as you see them looking up at you, their cheeks shining, they eyes imploring? Is it knowing that if they do fall at your feet, fling themselves down like victims waiting for the train—if they all sacrifice themselves, for you—there will be no one to catch them? No one but you.)

  It’s a night of performances.

  As I make my rounds my crowd of devotees follows me, seeing to all my needs (proffering drinks and food, seating me when I tire, leading me when I lose my way). It’s a far different Reganised experience than any I’ve witnessed, mostly because of the unusual mix of the crowd. There is less desperation, less of a need to solve and console (less neediness in general), leaving me free to circulate without the burden of over-eager boys falling over each other to get to me. But, there’s more to it than that. The crowd is more dignified, yes, more refined, less frenzied (at least now that they’ve had their initial fill), but in place of all that frantic energy is something else.

  There is an air of hyper-sexuality in the room, of intense desire, and all of it directed at me. The men (these tailored suits and silken ties) are more direct than the familiar college boys I’m used to, the women harder and more demanding. Within the hour I’ve been approached twice by a woman in a slinky red dress who asks me, her eyes locked on mine, if I’d like to go somewhere a little more private with her (and both times, as she retreats to her corner, I see her return to the arm of a man I assume is her husband, who glances my way and nods).

  Shockingly, I’m unperturbed. For the first time in my life I rise to the challenge, shrugging off my veil of insecurity to take up Regan’s reins like a champion. I absorb every witty comment and flirtatious look, every double entendre, every caress, and launch it back tenfold. I glide from one person to the next, my posture erect, my glass held high, working the crowd like a salesman closing a deal: efficient, reassuring, in control. Every once in a while I pass one of the circus performers and our eyes meet in recognition. We’re all playing our parts.

  And Jon is here too, of course, always a conversation behind, always just out of view. I reach out and I can never be sure—was that him handing me a drink? Was that his breath against my back? He is my wicked shadow, always coming on, unswerving, unstoppable. Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of him, but he’s too quick. Only if I shift my direction suddenly, if I swing around, if I pause…

  When he finally catches up with me, I’m not even paying attention. After hours spent circling one another, watching and waiting (and quietly avoiding), he manages to catch me off guard as I sit with a group of young executives watching the plate man. (He catches me and I’m stuck, not wanting to be Regan for him, not willing to, but forced to. I have to. And I hate having to).

  The plate man, a muscular black guy in billowy maroon pants, is chucking yellow dinner plates across the room, and like boomerangs they come back to him. My devotees are spread out behind me but I have the best view, the front row seat. I am the one who sees him first (even before he sees me, perhaps, though there is no flicker of surprise on his long grim face). He steps out of the crowd in his wrinkled gray suit and walks straight across the floor. The plate man incorporates him into his act, looping a plate around his head, like an invisible noose. The crowd appreciates it, loudly, but Jon doesn’t seem to notice what’s happened. He just keeps coming on, straight as an arrow, straight at me, and (in this vital moment, this test of my Reganness, in this moment when I could change things inexorably) I don’t even try to get away.

  He sits beside me on the couch, snakes his arm around me, and doesn’t let go for the rest of the night. (He leaves a damp imprint of his palm on the dress. It never quite fades.)

  I let him have his way, let him cart me around like a prize. I let him own Regan, like a shiny new toy all the other boys are jealous of, in the hopes that he’ll be satisfied. I let him have me on the condition (unspoken, but tangible) that in the end he’ll let me go.

  But it doesn’t happen that way.

  Near two o’clock, as we’re sitting in a loveseat watching a little girl in a sari dance by herself in the middle of the floor (deftly skipping over the limbs of the fat banker passed out at her feet), Jon takes my hand and says, Shall we?

  The crowd has thinned. Circus folk and suits alike are passed out throughout the suite. Pinkerton is snoring like a racehorse, splayed on the same couch he inhabited the entire night, the girl in the white leotard curled at his side. As we pass
the bar I catch a glimpse of a tall woman with wildly teased and sparkled hair giggling as a man in blue suspenders and a white silk shirt buries his face in her cleavage. His bald spot is red and shiny.

  I’ve had a few too many gin and tonics and find the intricacies of pulling on my coat completely baffling. I’m leaning on a column by the door, my arm in one of the sleeves, when Chem appears. He has a filmy orange scarf around his neck. This is the first time I’ve seen him since he was lost to the shadows at the beginning of the night.

  He asks Jon where we’re going.

  She’s coming home with me, Jon replies (but I miss it).

  Chem looks perturbed. This is (I’m almost sure) the first one-on-one conversation he and Jon have had since their altercation over the keys, and he seems unsure how to approach him without setting off a tirade. Is that right? he asks delicately.

  Yes, that’s right, Jon says, his voice suddenly full of determination (as though he expected to be fought on this. But fought by whom?). She’s coming home with me, he repeats (and I miss it again).

  And you’re alright with this? Chem asks, helping me into my knee-high boots (or trying to until Jon shoves his hand off my calf). I wonder when I took the boots off in the first place.

  She’s fine, Jon says. He pulls me toward him, his fingers digging into my back, and kisses me full on the lips, his tongue probing roughly into my mouth. You’re coming home with me, he says (and this time, it’s very hard to miss).

  In a flash I’m no longer Regan as Jon plods toward the elevator with me in tow, Chem trying with little success to stall his progress. Glancing back at him, I catch a glimpse through a window of a half-naked man on the balcony breathing fire out over the city.

  What the hell are you doing? Chem demands, stepping between us and the elevator. Jon grabs a fistful of his shirt and jerks him out of the way. He stumbles and winds up crouching on one knee, peering up at me, his feeble cry of, Wait! cut short by the closing of the doors.