The Queen of Diamonds

by Tracey Landau

  I venture closer to the set. Every detail of the room is as it was the night of the explosion. The black cat covers on the bed, the fan that’s on yet again, the pictures of me scattered all over the bed and floor—as if I’d walked into the past.

  My shaky hand turns off the fan. I look around at the pictures on the floor and see the one of my brother at the birthday party.… But.…

  I search my pockets and pull out the exact same photo with Danny’s address written on the back.

  Okay, calm down.… I take a deep breath. Then I realize what this is.

  I turn around but the theatre curtain is gone, replaced by a bedroom wall. I’m trapped in the vivid memory of the non-existing woman’s room. I look back at the floor at the photograph of my brother.

  “I’m imagining this.… This isn’t real,” I say slowly. Nothing changes. Great, I’m stuck in a hallucination.

  I remember what Scott said. Maybe he was right.… Maybe I missed something? Maybe I’m seeing this again because there’s something here worth noticing, something I overlooked?

  “Bingo,” I hear. Scott stands beside me. “Look around. Closet full of clothes. The bed’s made. The fan and lights are on. There’s a credit card on the desk, and there’s still smoke rising from the cigarette in the ashtray. Does it look like she planned for this house to blow up?” Scott asks. I shake my head.

  “Remember what you see here,” he tells me.

  I look around the room again, paying close attention to everything I see. The bed’s made but the rest of the room’s a mess. If she’s a messy person, why would she make her bed? Why are the photos scattered everywhere? From the fan and smoking cigarette I could tell she was waiting for me. But when she left she didn’t grab her credit card.… Or her cat.

  “Was there lipstick on the cigarette?” Scott asks me.

  “Um.… No,” I remember.

  “She does wear lipstick, right?”

  “Yeah.… So the cigarette wasn’t hers.”

  “And the mess? The pictures?” Scott asks as he circles me, getting my mind working.

  “Someone was looking for something.… A photo,” I look down at the picture in my hand. “Maybe the one with Danny’s address?”

  “The card.” Scott says, pointing to the playing card face down on the bed. I go over and pick it up, but it isn’t the Queen of Diamonds this time. Instead there’s a number in the center, written in cracked cursive: 38. I look up at Scott. Scott sighs and shakes his head.

  “What does this mean?” I ask roughly, but Scott runs past me. I turn around and suddenly everything is pitch black, silent. The lights are off. I wave my arms in front of me and feel the theatre curtain. I grab it and pull it over to find the opening. While my eyes are trying to adjust I manage to catch a glimpse of someone running out the side door of the theatre. I’m not sure, but…I think it looked like Brendan.

  * * * *

  “I’m sorry that, yet again, I’ll be leaving you by yourself tonight,” Molly said to me as I got out of the car.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll see Danny in there managing props, so I’ll have a ride home.”

  “Wait, wait, Les! What color am I thinking of?”

  “Green.”

  “You’re a freak.”

  We waved good-bye, I closed the car door, and Molly drove off, leaving me in front of the theatre. I headed towards the building and found a familiar woman leaning against the theatre door, smoking a cigarette.

  “What card am I thinking of?”

  “Queen of Diamonds again?”

  The non-existing woman smiled and blew some smoke in my face, then said, “Leslie; interesting name.”

  “What…how…?”

  “Brendan told me. You’re Danny’s brother?”

  “Yep.”

  “So theatre runs in the family?”

  “Well, I’m more dance-concentrated than theatre.”

  She blew more smoke in my face and I started to cough.

  “Not a smoker, are you?” she asked wistfully.

  “You…cough…caught that?”

  “Of course you’re not a smoker.” She moved the cigarette to the side of her mouth. Her now free hands grasped my upper arms.

  “You’re a dancer.… You keep your body healthy.” Her hands moved from my biceps to my chest. I watched her, stunned, unsure what to do.

  “You’re also in great shape,” she continued. Her fingers crossed down to my abs and I stopped her hands there, before they had a chance to move any…lower.…

  “You should wear tighter clothes,” she said, looking up at me as if what she was doing was perfectly normal. I slowly took her hands away from my stomach.

  “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Such a shame,” she sighed.

  “What is?”

  She suddenly pulled her hands out of mine, grabbed the cigarette, and blew yet more white suffocation at me.

  “I have to go. I have a purchase to make,” she said shortly before turning on her black heels and walking briskly away down the sidewalk. I watched her leave, thinking again how bizarre she was. I was growing more and more fond of her.

  * * * *

  “Danny, please, let me explain.” I attempt to calm my brother, but he’s impossible; pacing the apartment, screaming at me, just like I knew he would.

  “You’re under my custody, Les! What you did, taking off like that, was illegal!”

  “Jimmy called; he said it was important—”

  “What if some cop saw you? You’d be thrown in jail if not a mental institution, and people—you are sane, Les, although you’re beginning to prove otherwise—sane people don’t do well in mental institutions!”

  “Jimmy found a clue from the house. Listen, I wouldn’t have gone if I didn’t think it was important.”

  “I called you, like, eighty times. I could’ve sworn you picked up once and hung up on me, which pisses me off, by the way, but that aside, I’m in charge of you, you’re my responsibility. I could’ve been arrested for letting you out of my sight!”

  “I went back to the theatre after Brendan called, but by the time I got there, the rehearsal was already over.”

  “And you stole my car. I can kill you for that—I will kill you for that! When you die, it will be my fault,” Danny stops his ranting and turns to me. “There was no rehearsal tonight.”

  “So I discovered.”

  “Who’s this Brendan?”

  “I met him at the theatre, when I sat in on one of the rehearsals. He’s an understudy, wears a lot of 42nd Street merchandise, today it was a hat?”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever. Why did he tell you there was a rehearsal?”

  “I don’t know, but when I got to the theatre he was talking to someone on the phone. He knows about the explosion.”

  Danny’s thinking. He starts pacing back and forth in front of me.

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but it sounded like he was talking to that woman, the Queen of Diamonds.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I saw him running out of the theatre. I mean, there might have been someone else there turning on and off lights.”

  “What, like, stage lights?”

  “Yeah, but no…I thought.…”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I’m not sure if I really saw it, or thought I saw it.…” I try to explain without saying out and out “I may have imagined everything”. Unfortunately, Danny knows me too well.

  “What do you think you saw?” Danny asks slowly, his eyes narrowing.

  “Uh, the lights turned on and the curtains opened, and, uh.… Then I was in that woman’s bedroom.”

  “The one that exploded?”

  I nod slightly and, looking down, quietly add, “Scott was there.”

  I don’t want to see Danny’s expression. I keep my eyes low as he marches angrily past me and gra
bs something from the kitchen. He returns and forces a bottle of pills in my hand.

  “I’m not taking—” I start. He cuts me off.

  “Stop. Just…just take them.” Danny puts a cup of water in my other hand. I glance up at him and wish I hadn’t. I’ve never seen him so mad. I feel like a little kid being scolded and punished as I put the pills in my mouth. My throat refuses to swallow the little white capsules, but the water smooths it out and the pills slip down. They leave a plastic-y, unpleasant taste in my mouth. I hand back the cup of water and the bottle and feel a sense of defeat.

  Danny puts a hand on my shoulder. Now I refuse to look at him out of spite.

  “Les, I’m sorry, but Mark’s right. We can’t be worrying about you every second and at the same time manage a search party for Molly.…”

  I think he wants me to say something. I don’t. He continues.

  “Well, mi casa es su casa. Make yourself comfortable; you know where the guest bedroom is.”

  I start to head for the room but he grabs my arm.

  “Listen, I know you’re mad at me, but if something happens tonight—like, some allergic reaction or side effect from the medication, or you feel sick or something—tell me, okay?”

  I sigh. He hasn’t let go of my arm yet, and I realize he’s waiting for me (forcing me) to respond.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say out loud. He lets go and I retire to the guest bedroom.

  * * * *

  I lie on the bed and feel blank. My mind is bare. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Molly. Where could she be? Is she okay? What’s going on?

  But not tonight. Tonight I feel empty. Knowing I have some sort of chemicals rushing through my system makes me feel…different. Crazier than when I wasn’t on medication.

  Throughout the night I’m twitching and searching the room, positive I heard a sound or voice. I was told the medication takes a few days before it starts working. So perhaps it’s all psychological; I’ve tricked myself into believing the medication makes me worse when, in fact, it’s beneficial to my mental health.

  But then I realize that’s what scares me. The idea that medication would somehow change me. I’d be alone; on medication, I’d never see Scott again. He wouldn’t be there to help me find Molly. I’d also never have to question whether or not something’s real, and for some reason that just didn’t seem like me.

  I close my eyes but can’t sleep. I think of sheep, count backwards from a hundred, let my mind wonder. Eventually I look at the clock. It’s already 3:00—this will be the forth night in a row I’ll be getting less than five hours of sleep, if I get any at all. Wonderful.

  * * * *

  Pick up, pick up, pick up.…

  “Hello?”

  “Jenny! Thank god you’re home.”

  “Hey, Les! What’s up, something wrong? You sound out of breath.”

  “Okay, Jenny, you, you aren’t going to believe the night I just had.”

  “Something interesting?”

  “Interesting is putting it mildly!”

  I had just returned from hanging out with Jimmy at the bar (admittedly drunk) and was eager to tell Jenny all about the robbery at Quick Check. I delved into the story, stammering a bit, and waited for her reaction. When I finished she asked the two questions I knew she would.

  “That really happened? Wow.… I mean, are you sure this Jimmy guy is real?”

  The second question bummed me out, of course, because at the time I had to honestly answer “No”.

  “I don’t think I imagined it,” I told Jenny. “I’ve had my moments, but this, this was crazy, this was far too complicated and involved too many people to be entirely fake. Plus, I’m sure Molly saw him at the party the first time we met.”

  “Well, ask her. Next time you see her, ask. Did you tell her the story yet?”

  “No, I just got home. You were the first person I called.”

  “Okay, well, ask her before you tell her the story. God, I wish I was there. I should’ve gone with you, I’m missing out on way too much.”

  “So you’re saying you want to be taken hostage during a robbery at gunpoint?”

  “You had a great time, didn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but—”

  Jenny suddenly gasped.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  Jenny hesitated before saying “Um, never mind. I’m probably wrong anyway.”

  “What? What were you going to say?”

  “Uh…I don’t know, I just thought of something.… You remember that robbery that went wrong—the one you told me about, where your psychologist was killed?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I just…I don’t know.… I just think it’s a strange coincidence. I mean, you visit your home town—a boring, quiet little place that’s always been very safe—and you meet this kid Jimmy who robs stores with a gun right after your psychologist was murdered during a robbery in the same area.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing! I just.… You sure this Jimmy guy can be trusted? I mean, he seems like the perfect suspect of that other robbery—”

  “No. I can tell; Jimmy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Well, just, do me a favor and stay away from him, okay? I don’t want something bad to happen to you,” I was a little surprised to hear Jenny say. I wanted to shrug off her warning, but the concern in her voice gave impact to her words. But she didn’t know Jimmy. Jimmy wasn’t dangerous.… I didn’t think so, at least.

  * * * *

  I watch as night turns to day with a dread in my heart. I didn’t get any sleep. I didn’t do anything constructive. I don’t feel like myself right now, and this not-me has to attend a psychological evaluation and therapy session today, conducted by some stranger who probably believes that I’m guilty of blowing up that house. I didn’t do anything but put myself in danger to find my sister.

  Time speeds up and slows down in my state of insomnia, and before I know it I’m sitting in front of Dr. Bandos—the psychologist working with my lawyer. Her office, though big, is disturbingly intimate with the furniture pushed close together in the center of the room. I wouldn’t ordinarily mind being so close to someone else, but unlike the people you sit next to on the subway or brush by on the sidewalk, this woman is here to study my every move and record my every thought, trying to decide whether or not I’m crazy enough to lock up. That my freedom’s fate rests in this stranger’s hands isn’t a pleasant thought.

  “How are you feeling today, Mr. Adams?” she begins. I tell her to call me “Les”. This causes her to scribble something much longer than the three-letter name down on her pad of paper. When she’s finished, she looks back up at me and asks another question.

  “Have you been taking your medication?”

  So we’ve already skipped the chit-chat.

  “Yes.” I say flatly.

  “How are you reacting to it?”

  Like you care, as long as it works.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I don’t think it works.”

  “Well, once it gets into your system it should start working. In a week, if you still have sleeping problems, let me know and we’ll—”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “I mean, I don’t think I need medication.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I’m sure I can manage just fine without them. I’ve done fine without any sort of medication all my life. I know what’s real and what isn’t.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She goes back to writing in her notepad. “All right. Let’s talk about the night of the fire. How did you get to the house?” she asks, still looking down at her writing.

  I want to take that pad and throw it out the window.

  “I was told to go there. Someone gave me the address—”

  “The non-existing woman?”

  How did she know that?

  She answers my confused expression with a contemplated, �
�You told me when you were under hypnosis.”

  “She exists.… I just don’t know her name, that’s all.”

  More scribbling. What could she possibly be scribbling?

  “So, what did this woman tell you? Did she tell you to meet her at that house specifically?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “She said she had information I needed.”

  “What information?”

  It’s getting harder and harder to avoid bringing up Molly’s disappearance. I don’t want to tell this woman that Molly’s missing, but with how things are playing out I might not have a choice.

  “Tell me the truth, Leslie. Either I get this information straight from you now, or I’ll extract it later during hypnosis.”

  “You need my consent to perform hypnosis.”

  “You’re the prime suspect in a serious crime; things change in these kinds of situations.”

  That sounded like a threat. I’m not liking the way this session is going. Maybe I should just tell her about Molly.

  “Do I have your promise of doctor-patient confidentiality?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Depends on what you tell me. If it’s information that directly proves you’re guilty, I have to tell your lawyer. If it’s something that involves hurting others or hurting yourself, I must take further action.”

  “What about gray areas?”

  My psychologist keeps her expression blank but I could see the intrigue in her eyes. I continue.

  “It doesn’t exactly have to do with this case and no one’s getting hurt, but the police would probably be interested.”

  “Does it have to do with why you were at the house?”

  I nod, reading every change in her expression, trying to read her mind. I’m unsuccessful, of course.

  “I can’t make any promises.…” She fiddles with her pen for a second, then smiles. “But you can trust that I only want to help you.”

  I regard her like a dog would of a stranger with a squeaky toy, weighing my options.

  “She called me—the non-existing woman. I don’t know how she got my number.”

  I start to tell her what I remember…

  * * * *

  “Hello?”

  “Les.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Queen of Diamonds.”