Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  Lara donned the robe hanging on the back of her door. “Well?” Yasmeen said, leaning against the desk, cigarette smoke filling the room with the smell of an intoxicating future. Lara could lick the air.

  Lara found herself blinking back tears again. She thought of Sarah Kate. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. Her words were soft, as to a lover with whom she had shared much but could no longer share herself. “Look what they made me wear.”

  “It’s your job,” Yasmeen replied.

  “My job,” Lara said. “I talk to the pregnant wife of a dead miner, and the next second I’m discussing vaginal rejuvenation with a surgeon who looks like Beetlejuice. Then I have to watch you with your baggy pants and frizzy hair and teeth that wouldn’t know a cosmetic dentist if they bit one. So fucking authentic. You challenge the world, and I’m spoon-feeding bullshit.”

  “It’s not all that glamorous.” Yasmeen put her hand on Lara’s shoulder. “I think you might have the wrong idea.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Lara said. “My job is glamorous. You’re not getting a two-page spread in Us magazine.”

  Yasmeen peered at her. “Ahem,” she said.

  “I don’t want glamour,” Lara said. “Glamour is poisonous. I want a life. Tell me how to get it.”

  Yasmeen pulled one long drag off her cigarette, then put it out on Lara’s desk. She then grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and wrote down a name and a phone number.

  “My first producer,” Yasmeen said. “He’s in London. He might be able to help you. They won’t listen to you here. They have you in a box, a pretty, padded box. You’ll have to quit or force them to fire you. You’ll get a reputation for being crazy. But there is a chance.” Beat. “A very small chance,” she sighed, as if already anticipating Lara’s demise. “The benefit of being ordinary is you can’t be traced as you make your moves. No one sees you, even as you’re standing before them, even as you’re taking their job.”

  Yasmeen placed her hand against Lara’s cheek, sticky with makeup and tears. She brushed away a long strand of hair and put it back behind Lara’s ear.

  Then she kissed her on the mouth. And lingered.

  “Be careful,” she whispered. “Even thoughts leave tracks.” Then she let go, and walked out.

  Lara put the soft pads of her fingers to her mouth and was surprised to find a smile there.

  26

  KING’S GAMBIT

  IF ESTELLA gets any bigger, we’re going to have to hire NFL linebackers to lift her—”

  “Call the Tisches! Maybe the Giants can lend us one of theirs!”

  “Remember the good old days, when she was bulimic?”

  “She lost half her molars, but her grand battement was incomparable!”

  The arena: formal dining room, penthouse, 740 Park.

  The players: puppet masters; board members, NYBT.

  The sport: gossip.

  Welcome to Cynthia Hunsaker Power’s coming-out party.

  “And the Ukrainian—”

  Collective groan.

  “She needs two dressing rooms? Why?”

  “One for her ego!”

  “Who is she, Jennifer Lopez? I mean, is she even that good anymore? Has anyone else noticed the turnout?”

  “Maybe she’s got turnout burnout?” Cue laughter.

  Strategy, Cynthia, strategy, she counseled herself, even as she smiled at the joke. Cynthia was not about to let the gossip derail her. She knew the true meaning behind this dinner, and so did the board. Cynthia had to set the course for the NYBT in the coming year. She had to show them that they had not made a mistake in handing her the reins.

  Cynthia had worked on a speech.

  “I swear I thought I heard the floor shake during the last allegros of the grand pas.”

  “Well, if you were married to Roan, you’d have trouble concentrating—”

  “Is he really that bad?”

  “That bad? Half the line has had pregnancy scares!”

  “…and that’s just the women…”

  Finger bowls had arrived. Cynthia took the fish knife and tapped the side of her crystal goblet. She stood, waiting for all eyes to be on her. C’mon, Zorba, she thought, be a mensch, help me out.

  “I want to thank our illustrious board members for coming tonight,” Cynthia said, having cleared her throat as the first line of her speech made it to the surface. How perfectly dull, she thought. “We have an exciting year ahead of us, and we have so much to be proud of.” The members smiled and nodded. “I am honored and humbled that I was chosen to lead our company into a bold new era. My only fear is that I will disappoint you.”

  “Well. I’m a little disappointed,” a familiar voice said.

  Cynthia turned and grabbed her chest. Jacks was standing in the entryway, his head cocked, smiling. “That I wasn’t invited,” he continued.

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes at him, took a deep breath, then turned back to the group. “There are some changes I would like to suggest,” Cynthia continued.

  “Changes?” someone asked.

  “What changes? I’d love to hear them,” Jackson said, as he crossed to the table. “I’m all for change.”

  “I love our company,” Cynthia said, willing her eyes not to move to the human distraction now standing mere feet away, “and I have for many years. But I think there comes a time when we have to try new things or risk becoming redundant.”

  “Oh, I agree with that,” Jackson said. “What’s that you’re eating?” His eyes peered over at Cynthia’s plate.

  What to Do/What Not to Do, Cynthia thought. Do not: scream, slap, stick Jacks with a knife. No felonies. Do: have Jacks escorted out, or, retain Zen-like calm and stay on my game. The first wave, Jacks walking in the door, had knocked her over, but she hadn’t drowned. Cynthia knew there would be more waves, and more paddling. Suck it up, she told herself.

  “I’m starving,” Jacks said. He jerked his head at a servant, who brought him a chair. Jacks squeezed in between Margaret Lord Foster and a bloodless fellow wearing granny glasses on the top of his head.

  Jackson leaned into the servant’s ear. “What’s the entrée?”

  “Roasted cod, sir.”

  “Cod. Sounds good. I’ll have two.”

  The servant scurried away. Probably rushing to tell the rest of the help about the reality show unfolding in the dining room, Jacks surmised.

  “You won’t believe the day I had, hon,” Jackson said to Margaret Something Something, whom he’d met many times, but whose name he could never remember. And why should he? He was Jackson Power. She was lucky to know him, the old blue hair.

  “Will you be staying for dessert?” Cynthia asked, acknowledging Jacks at last.

  “Good to see you, Joseph, I didn’t see you there,” Jackson said to a guest seated down the row. “How’s your wife’s rehab going this time?”

  “As I was saying,” Cynthia said, “we have priorities for the NYBT. Getting out of debt is number one. Raising funds and advertising revenue is, of course, of the utmost urgency. But I have been asking myself an even more important question. What is our vision? Do we have one? The NYBT is reliable. Our regular subscribers depend on us to bring them the performances they recognize from their childhoods. But we need to be more than that. We need to become a little more dangerous.”

  The servant placed Jackson’s meal before him. The plate had barely touched the ivory tablecloth when he started cutting in.

  “Dangerous? I’m not sure what you mean by ‘dangerous,’” Margaret Lord Foster said.

  “We could perform The Nutcracker in thongs,” someone suggested.

  “Cynthia,” Jackson said, his mouth full, “I’m sorry, what’s for dessert?”

  Cynthia rolled her fingertip around the top of her wineglass, thus preventing herself from throwing it at him.

  “Jackson, how long are you planning on staying?”

  “Good question,” Jackson said, chewing loudly. He started to choke. He grabbed Margare
t’s wineglass and sucked down its contents. “That’s very nice—what is that, a ’62? From my cellar?”

  “May we talk, Jackson?” Cynthia said through gritted teeth. She gestured toward the hallway. Suddenly, a clamoring was heard. Muffled voices, one a bassoon, the other tremulous and high-pitched. A mini-concerto of antagonistic notes.

  Harry the Russian, wearing a shearling coat that made him look like a truck trying to stay warm, and a beaver hat (Twelve dollar! Canal Street! Real beaver!), materialized like a furry natural disaster, carrying a briefcase that Cynthia recognized as a Christmas present she’d given Jackson after she’d ceased using her imagination.

  “Where you want this?” Harry the Russian swung the briefcase, gruffly addressing Jackson. He hated being up here, in this fanciness; his place was curbside. He felt like he was part of a conspiracy to humiliate this very nice lady, Cynthia, who was like mosquito, so skinny, and that made him sad, which made him angry, and he swore when he got home he was going to throw that lousy nephew out on his ass, because Harry could not afford to go to prison right now if he did what he felt like, which was kill him, yes.

  “Take it to the master, Harry,” Jackson said.

  Harry the Russian stood there like a wall built thousands of years ago with strong hands.

  Jackson sighed. “Please,” he said.

  Harry gave a curt nod, and turned.

  “Wait,” Cynthia said. “Jackson. You are not invited back into my bedroom.”

  “Our bedroom.”

  “It was our bedroom,” Cynthia told him calmly. “It is no longer our bedroom.”

  “Ah, but it is,” Jackson said. “Good news, everybody,” he said, as he turned toward the table, “Cynthia and I have decided to get back together.”

  Confusion spread through the faces of the dining companions. Jackson turned back to his former mate. Panic flashed in her eyes, like a beacon to him.

  “Jackson. Outside.” Cynthia stood up.

  “That is what you wanted, right, Cynthia?” Jackson asked, trying to sound innocent and failing. “You said, through Bloomenfeld’s veneers, that you wanted to get back together. I’ve thought about it, and I agree. What we have is too important, too good to give up.

  “Toast!” Jackson turned to the table. “To my bride of twenty-five years! Two of them very good ones!” Beat. “It’s a joke, people, come on!” Was he being too cruel? A flash of memory: the birth of Vivienne, their daughter. Cynthia’s forehead glowing with sweat; he’d kissed her and tasted her struggle. Jackson set down his wineglass.

  Suddenly Cynthia lifted her glass. “Why not?” She smiled. “A toast, to my loving husband, partner, and friend.” Jacks looked at her.

  Why is Cynthia beaming like a new bride? Something awful has happened. He had dropped the ball for one second and she was dribbling down the court. After prolonged hesitation, their dining companions lifted their wineglasses and joined the toast.

  Cynthia held her glass out for Jacks to clink. Clever bitch, he thought, as their wineglasses touched.

  As the table settled, Cynthia started conversing with the man on her right. “Arnold, where should we seat the big donors at the gala?” she asked. “Always such a nuisance, making sure each one gets enough attention. Remember when Ivan’s wife swapped place cards? And the meal requests! How many are on the new chili pepper diet?”

  Others at the table had picked up where they’d left off before Jackson had entered the room; his presence was no longer news. This was more than Jackson could stand.

  “Jesus, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?” Jackson said as he started loosening his tie. His hands whirled, pulling at Hong Kong silk, yanking at fine-woven cotton, tugging at the thick leather band around his waist.

  Within seconds, he was naked.

  “My God,” Cynthia said when she turned.

  A silver ladle tumbled onto a china plate, shattering it. The Irish girl who was nervous when serving soup from the left gasped, stifled a cry with her fist, and ran back into the kitchen.

  “That’s better,” Jackson said, and began to cut into a stalk of white asparagus. He smiled at Margaret. He thought he caught the glimpse of a smile back.

  “Harry!” Cynthia screamed. Harry came running down the hall. All ears awakened to the thud, thud, thud of his boots, his body weighed down by that shearling coat.

  “Oh, for Got’s sake.” Harry stopped short, taking in the full spectacle of his boss’s back end, mercilessly turned toward him.

  “Escort Mr. Power out, please, Harry, or I will call the authorities,” Cynthia said, reclaiming her dignity.

  “I have a right to be naked in my own house!” Jackson said. “And the fish needs more sauce.”

  “You’re making a fool of yourself, Jackson,” Cynthia said, “a complete fool.”

  “Divorce me, then,” Jackson said. “You don’t love me. You can’t stand the sight of me. What do you have in your veins, Cynthia? Paint thinner?” Jackson pounded the table. “Divorce me!” The silverware jumped, but not as high as Margaret Lord Foster.

  “Harry!” Cynthia said. “Help Mr. Power out. Now.”

  Jacks leapt up. “Grab that,” he said, pointing at the Jackson Pollock above the mantelpiece. Harry stood there, shaking his head.

  “You can’t take the art!” Cynthia said. “You’re insane!”

  “It’s probably alarmed,” someone suggested.

  Jackson leaned against the mantel and lifted the painting from where it hung from tiny hooks. He was lucky it had never been bolted.

  “It’s mine, I’m taking it with me,” he said. “Just like everything else in this apartment!” At which point, Harry, who’d grabbed his clothes, lifted Jacks under his arms, painting and all, and walked out.

  “Except for me,” Cynthia said. “I don’t belong to you.”

  Someone at the table clapped.

  “YOU’RE FIRED!” Jackson yelled at Harry, on their way down to the guest wing. “Put me down!”

  “Idiot,” Harry grumbled, as he walked Jackson into his bedroom, and stood over him. “Put your clothes on.” Like a five-year-old getting dressed for school, Jacks started with his socks.

  “King Cole,” Jacks said. “I need a drink.”

  “You need more than drink,” Harry said. “You need ass whop.”

  Moments later, they were driving west.

  “I just thought I’d try a civil dinner with my wife—she’s still my wife,” Jackson said, from the back of the limo.

  “You think I am fool? I have fool for boss,” Harry said. “You are in Russian winter of your life.” He turned onto Fifth. Jacks shook his head. He’d been shaking his head a lot, befuddled, as though he had nothing to do with the direction his life had taken. As though he were hanging on to the back of a runaway horse, except the horse wasn’t a runaway at all. The horse was him.

  “What’s the big deal about Russian winters?” Jackson asked.

  Harry couldn’t believe that even his boss was this obtuse. Come on. Where to start? Peter the Great? Napoleon’s retreat? Okay, World War II. Germans sent to the Russian front. Thousands die, their corpses frozen stiff, human Popsicles. A natural ending to the unnatural force of war. And what was his boss heading toward, if not the unnatural force of war?

  “How’s your health insurance?” Harry asked.

  “Always with the smart comments,” Jacks said. “And still I don’t fire you. Why don’t I fire you?”

  Harry knew the answer to Jackson’s question. What they had here, inside the confines of this expensive hulk of metal, was a marriage. Jacks couldn’t let two marriages fall apart. Harry represented stability. Harry was his ugly wife, but one he loved as well.

  “What’s more stupid than young men in new love?” Harry asked.

  “I think you’re going to tell me,” Jacks said.

  “Old men in new love,” Harry said.

  “Thanks,” Jacks said as Harry struck the steering wheel with the butt of his hand and exploded in laughter.
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br />   “WHAT DO you mean, doesn’t he work here anymore?” Jacks asked Lionel, the old bartender.

  Lionel shrugged.

  “Give me his address,” Jacks said impulsively. Adrian hadn’t shown up at work. The St. Regis crew hadn’t heard from him in a week. If I’m the good guy I think I am, Jacks thought, I should track the kid down.

  Lionel wrote down an address, handed it to Jacks.

  “My bottle,” Jacks said. “We’re going to need it.” Lionel grabbed the Glenfiddich, handed it over.

  Minutes later, Jacks found himself knocking on the door marked 4C of a fourth-floor walk-up in the East Village, around the corner from the Bowery project. He’d kept his elbows at his sides, trying not to touch the walls with his cashmere coat. How could people live this way? Jacks thought as he looked at the bare lightbulb above his head, failing in its bid to light the darkened hallway. If the building were demolished, it’d be an improvement.

  “Adrian!” Jacks yelled. “Come on, open up! It’s Jacks Power, here!”

  Jacks had downed a couple of shots on the way, to bolster his newfound sense of heroism. He would have pressed his ear to the door, but he didn’t want to catch anything.

  He thought he heard shuffling. What if I have the wrong address? Jacks thought. He wished he’d brought Harry and his scary tattooed knuckles up.

  The door opened. Adrian, half-naked, pale and gaunt, was staring out at him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Adrian asked.

  “You look like crap,” Jacks said. “Come on. I’m taking you out.”

  Adrian stumbled back in his tighty whiteys. “Welcome,” he gestured. “Maybe you can suggest something for the décor. I’m thinking marble columns and a Persian rug. Like the Shah’s last palace. Or is that too much?”

  “Funny,” Jacks said.

  “Oh wait,” Adrian said. “Who needs to decorate? I’m going to be dead. Thank God! I hate dealing with swatches!”

  “Get your clothes on,” Jacks said. “We could both use a good meal. I found my dinner rather unsatisfying tonight.”

  Jacks picked up a pair of pants that were on the tattered sofa, threw them at Adrian, then wiped his hands.