Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “Oh God, no,” she said, “how about Raoul’s?” Raoul’s! She hadn’t been to Raoul’s in twenty years, wasn’t even sure it existed anymore. But her dim memory of dark booths, lurid oil paintings, a crowded bar, red wine in carafes, and piles of French fries on thick white plates sang its siren song.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. Adrian knew Raoul’s. It was downtown, in Soho, an artist hang. This was all wrong.

  “I’m sure. Oh, and Robert,” Cynthia said, “wear that suit you were wearing the other day, charcoal gray, I can’t remember the label, you know which one.”

  Cynthia hung up on his gasped response, and leapt into the air, clicking her heels together and landing with a thud that reverberated in the downstairs parlor.

  The staff looked up from their respective household duties. Then they heard a word, a name screamed at the top of their mistress’s lungs. They could not fully understand—who or what was this Zorba?

  LARA hadn’t had anything to drink the night before; the alarm at 4:30 had failed to wake her because she was already awake. And prepared. At this hour, in the gray between night and morning, she knew that today was the day she began to fix what had gone wrong with her life.

  Although Lara had found reporting in Tucson mostly trite, there’d been harrowing moments, excitement, pulse-quickening and insistent: a flash flood, a middle-of-the-night house fire, a domestic dispute turned murderous. Lara, the weather girl turned local reporter, would be one of the first called to the scene. Lara and the other local reporters formed a ragtag fraternity. There was the guy who always had a bottle stashed in his hatchback, the ambitious, obnoxious girl they’d all avoid—but mostly there was camaraderie. And a life lived “at the scene.”

  The higher she climbed, the more successful she became, the more money they waved in front of her, the less her work mattered. Lara had a team of people to write “her” copy. Lara no longer came up with stories; there was a team responsible for tracking the story.

  Spending the weekend devoting herself to Yasmeen reminded her of how much she’d sold out. And how far she’d have to go to give her life meaning.

  But what kind of an asshole fucks up a cushy dream job as a morning anchor for a shot at getting shot at?

  Well, who would miss her if she died, anyway? Very few: Lara’s mother, living with her stepfather in Washington (she’d never even seen the house), her father with his many girlfriends and their dramas, her older brother living in Los Angeles. Lara hadn’t seen anyone in her family in years. Thanksgivings had come and gone, winter holidays weren’t particularly nostalgic for her. (Certainly not the girlfriends who had peeled away one by one, lost to marriages, families, the inability to match her paycheck for paycheck.) Who would miss her?

  Jackson.

  The thought of Jacks’s growing old alone, without the woman who’d finally reached him, who’d tunneled through all of his layers—Male Ego, Childhood Issues, Fear, Control—

  How had she managed, Lara mused, to find the soft core hidden beneath his blustery package? She’d fallen in love with what she’d found and hadn’t even been looking for. The relationship was surviving, thriving, even through the shift from the clandestine to the public; it now touched on the simple sweetness of the normal. She’d lived through public disgrace, her baptism by fire came in headlines. Now, what was left: no more lies. No more gut-churning guilt. Waking up in each other’s arms as sunlight tiptoed into the room. Maybe, just maybe, with luck and patience, they, too, could be that old couple, arm in arm, helping each other across the street.

  Lara felt a tremor in her gut as she walked past the newsroom cubicles, exchanging short greetings with the associates and production assistants who appeared like a neat row of scalps. She was holding the Yasmeen piece on a DVD she’d created with the help of her Special Forces team. The piece made those jaded examples of what a life in a newsroom can do to the masculine form sniffle and wipe their eyes. She took a deep breath, and knocked on Scott’s (first name or last?) door. “Come in,” he called out.

  “If you don’t cry at this,” she told him as she stepped inside, “we have a heartless android running the morning show.”

  Scott (first name or last?) hung up the phone, checked his watch as she slipped the DVD into the player. For the next three minutes, Lara was mesmerized, though she’d seen it many times; the trepidation in “Radio Face’s” well-bred voice as SCUD missiles flew overhead was palpable.

  Scott took deep, impatient breaths, tapped his foot, rolled up a piece of paper and shot it into his wastebasket. The segment wasn’t even over before he turned to her.

  “Great. We’ll give it thirty seconds. Nightly is devoting sixty.”

  “Thirty seconds?” Lara cried out. “But you’re giving two minutes to—what is it—‘This Spring, make a Statement with your Stockings’—”

  “God rest her soul, this story is a downer. The American housewife does not want to deal with downers, unless they’re prescribed,” he said. “They want to know what to wear under their skirts. Or if they should even be wearing skirts. Or how long or short those skirts should be. Plus, the models are hot. Totally hot.”

  “Oh, yeah, the American housewife, whatever that is, really cares about hot young models,” she said.

  “People, especially women people, do not want hard news in the morning. We’ve done the research.” Scott was working his way up onto a soapbox. “Here’s a news flash for you, Lara.” His voice became grave. “Life is tough enough.”

  Lara’s body hardened into the titanium fused into computer shells and high-end credit cards. Men in positions of power weren’t necessarily the brightest, she knew. Time to manipulate.

  “That’s true,” she said (breathe in, 1-2-3-4). “Life is hard. That’s why women people need inspiration—women people should know more about Yasmeen Ali than Lindsay Lohan Spears Hilton!”

  So much for manipulation.

  “Now, hold on—” Scott (first or last?) said.

  “When did news become gossip and gossip become news? And when do we become embarrassed?”

  “You just talked yourself down to twenty-five seconds, Sunshine.”

  “Could you even pinpoint Iraq on a map, Scott?”

  “Twenty seconds…”

  “Quick, what is Tangiers?” Lara asked, sweetly. “Hint! It’s not an orange liqueur!”

  “And,” Scott continued, “we just extended your interview with our fashion expert on the spring line, which begs the question: fishnet or opaque?” He tapped a manila envelope against her chest. “Here are your notes and a pair of purple fishnets, size six. I expect this segment to be…scintillating.”

  She walked out and slammed the door, dumping the manila envelope into the trash as she strode past the cubicles.

  39

  CASTLING KINGSIDE AND QUEENSIDE

  21. Grey Goose vodka martini, rocks, twist (she would drink half of it, then move on to half a glass of white Burgundy).

  5. Baby greens salad, light dressing. If artichokes are in season (are artichokes in season? Adrian decided “yes”), then steamed artichoke, no butter.

  3. Preferred entrée: Fish. White fish, no oil, no butter.

  Adrian flipped through his notecards. He would amaze Cynthia with his uncanny knowledge of her food and wine preferences. He would “know” her, “understand” her—isn’t that what we want? To be understood? Even if it just comes down to a fish order?

  37. Topics of conversation: Well, Adrian had been given an anemic list by Jacks. Something about the dance board. A couple of suggestions about working out and antioxidants. Vivienne, their daughter, had been the last item.

  Vivienne. Adrian had found himself saying her name out loud at odd times. In the morning, when he was spreading cream cheese on a bagel; when he’d take a walk down the street, west to the river to watch the gulls swerve and dive and paint the sky. He’d hear her name in their cries. Why? It was a pretty name, Vivienne, the Royal American Lesbian Princess. Who could kiss a man
and make him forget the one, even briefly, who had left heavy tracks on his heart.

  9. Dessert: Fruit and/or sorbet.

  52. Favorite teaser: Tongue in the Ear, a move that had driven Cynthia wild—and paved the way for little Vivienne to be born, Jacks had noted with pride.

  And the pièce de résistance:

  28. Making Love: Cynthia didn’t like to take the lead, so Adrian would have to. At her core, apparently, she was shy; she might even be frigid. Jacks and Cynthia hadn’t had sex in the six months prior to his leaving.

  Under this topic, Jacks had written two things: “Good Luck” and “Get the Job Done.”

  Adrian had decided that Raoul’s was to his benefit. He knew downtown; knew the late-night bars; the nightclubs with no signs on the doors; he knew the language and could speak “gorgeous young unidentifiable man” with ease. He felt more normal in these climes than in a white-tablecloth restaurant in the East Sixties or Seventies. Cynthia was in his territory now.

  The sky was drifting toward evening. Adrian checked himself, blue-black in the growing reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Stenciled onto the diamond-laced bridge, the streets, the river, was the reflection of a man in a white shirt and bullet-gray suit, his hair cut just so, his cuff links winking just beyond his jacket sleeves. The bartender and failed playwright carved a Byronesque figure into the glass. He’d hoped that his prey, this woman, would find him irresistible; that she would wonder about her fingertips finding secrets written on his skin; that her lips would desire his, that his scent would be pleasing to her.

  But what about love? Did he hope for that?

  No. He didn’t want Cynthia to fall in love with him. There was no room in his heart to reciprocate and maybe there never would be. His own pain was all he could handle; to bear another’s, to be responsible for someone else’s heart, would be impossible. He needed merely interest, intrigue, infatuation—just enough emotion to divest Cynthia of her marriage, to allow Jacks, and her, to move on. For Jacks to make new mistakes (of this, Adrian was certain), for Cynthia to find, maybe, true happiness.

  “I DON’T know why I called and I don’t know why I picked the place, and I really don’t know why I’m going!”

  Cynthia was standing in her bra and stockings, refusing to get dressed. Vivienne, almost six feet and packing at least thirty more well-placed pounds than her mother, was standing over her, hands on hips, looking grandly annoyed.

  “You are getting dressed right this minute, young lady!”

  “I don’t want to go out! I want to stay home!”

  Cynthia reached for the phone.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” Vivienne asked.

  “What’d you just call me?” Cynthia asked, briefly stopping the freight train of misery.

  “Mom.”

  “Mom! Have you noticed that you’ve started calling me Mom again?”

  “I always call you Mom.”

  “No, you don’t. You call me Cynthia.”

  “Mom,” Vivienne said, “don’t distract me. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Canceling.”

  Vivienne pulled the phone away from her.

  “Give me back my phone,” Cynthia insisted. “You can’t make me go out!”

  “Oh, yes, I can.” Vivienne hugged the phone to her chest. “Watch me!”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I’ll give you ten—okay, five…one good reason why I’m not going to give you the phone,” Vivienne said. “Sex is the greatest wrinkle eraser! And it uses up calories!”

  “He’s way way too young. I’m way way too old!”

  “So view this as a dry run! Don’t take it seriously!”

  “Oh my God, I told him what to wear—”

  Vivi’s eyebrows shot up. “You told him what to wear? Really?”

  “I know! What’s happened to me? I can’t go! I can’t go!” Cynthia, Hysteria; Hysteria, Cynthia—we think you’ve met.

  “No! This is good, so now, now you’ll recognize him—”

  “I don’t even think I like him.” Cynthia looked up at her daughter, who was waving a Dolce & Gabbana dress at her mom. Another trophy from their shopping expedition. It was sheer, shiny, stretchy, and about the size of a scarf, if the scarf had been shrunk.

  “Meaningless sex is better when you don’t like the person. And that’s a fact,” Vivienne said, “as Jacks Power would say.”

  “How did I let you talk me into getting this?” Cynthia took the hanger reluctantly. “I should be dressing you. Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get you to dress up?”

  “I don’t remember. A few.”

  “Aunt Julia’s wedding, cousin Lucy’s first communion, your debutante ball, countless bat mitzvahs, and how many Christmases and anniversaries and birthday parties…”

  “I like this, with these—” Vivienne held up boots, ignoring her mother’s litany. Black patent leather, gold buckle. The footwear equivalent of a flashing neon sign: “Let’s skip dinner and fuck!”

  “I can’t wear those boots,” Cynthia pouted. “I’ll feel like a tramp. You made me buy those—”

  “Exactly what I used to say,” Vivienne said.

  Cynthia grabbed the boots. “Fine.”

  “Tell me more about him,” Vivienne asked.

  “Oh God, he’s young. I said that.”

  “He’s not like fifteen, Mom, is he? He is of drinking age.”

  “And so handsome. And such a…”

  “Prize?”

  “No.”

  “Sweetheart?”

  “No, not quite that, either.”

  “Mom—”

  “He’s…an asshole,” Cynthia said. “Just like your father, I’m sorry to say. He’s in finance, of course, how fascinating, hedge fund manager of some sort—”

  “Sounds horrible,” Vivienne said. “And convenient for the short term. Like a revenge fuck on Daddy—”

  “Vivienne, please, that’s disgusting.”

  “Truth is Beauty, Mother, and you’re going to look beautiful tonight. Besides,” Vivienne said, waving the boots over her head, twirling them like batons, “there’s another good reason for you to go, a very good reason.”

  “You have my attention, daughter.” Cynthia needed another reason to go; anything would do.

  “It would make Jacks Power so very mad.” Vivienne rocked the boots back and forth.

  “Hand me those things,” Cynthia said. She slipped into them. And stood, arms out, for her daughter to help her on with her dress. Oh, the comfort of the smallest gesture—her daughter helping her fit into a sleeve.

  “So at that art opening, the other night…” Vivienne said.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you know any of the people at the table? It was your ticket, I thought you might—there was someone…cute…”

  Cynthia looked at her. She wanted her daughter to be happy. “Who was she?” she asked. “An artist?” Cynthia sat down at her mirrored makeup table. Sarah Bernhardt had used it sometime during the twelve years she’d lived in New York. The mirrors made any light in the room dance, which in turn made putting on makeup well-nigh impossible—a fact she’d learned only after falling in love with its romantic history.

  “Mom, the she’s a he. It’s weird, I know. I’m such a traitor for even mentioning it,” Vivienne stammered. Vivienne never stammered.

  Cynthia raised an eyebrow, and kept her mouth shut.

  “I know, it’s horrible. I’m the Kim Philby of Sappho-world.”

  Cynthia waited, a supreme effort.

  “It was the strangest thing…Aiko left me that day, for the last time—and here, he, this…boy, sitting next to me, you were supposed to be in my seat, remember, and then, for no reason—”

  Any false move, any reaction from a mother in a moment like this could swing the pendulum from a June wedding to a greaser chick named Paul, short for Paula.

  “We…kissed,” Vivienne said.

  Cynthia was careful not even t
o catch her daughter’s eye in the mirror. Concentrate, Cynthia cautioned herself; keep your face poker smooth, your eyes on that dreaded falling eyelid. Grunt, delicately. Maybe.

  “And it was…?” she offered at last.

  Cynthia looked up. Fah! She couldn’t help it. Her eyes met Vivienne’s and in that moment her daughter could see everything, she knew it, as she knew her own mind—she saw the embossed wedding invitations, the bouquet, the bridal train, the fluttering around the guest tables at the house in the Hamptons, the fretting over a latent June squall—

  Vivienne put her hands on her mother’s shoulders and peered into the mirror behind her. Could any mother and daughter look less alike? But then, Cynthia saw something—

  “Meaningless,” Vivienne was saying, “a freak thing…vapor…”

  Defeat snatched from the Jaws of Victory by one unblinking eyeball. Cynthia would have to live with her mistake—but still, still, if a boy, somewhere, had brought about this…adjustment? Could “adjustment” be the word? With Vivienne, well, anything was possible.

  “I called Aiko,” Vivienne said. “She hasn’t called me back, but I know she will. I know she will. She can’t…she can’t just not love me anymore. Right?”

  Looking into her daughter’s eyes, Cynthia saw a piece of herself, a single brushstroke of sturdy Midwestern stock. “Impossible,” Cynthia said, to both of the faces caught in the net of lights dancing off the mirrored table.

  IT WASN’T as though Jacks didn’t have enough problems. Pick any five minutes out of his day, hell, thirty seconds! What was he dealing with? Solutions? NO! Problems!

  Only now, most of the problems were generated by Artemus. Thanks to Dad, Jacks Power was in danger of losing the Bowery project altogether. Artemus Power had stormed into his principle architect’s (“Mr. Fancypants”) office, demanding shortcuts he’d routinely gotten forty years ago with housing projects he’d built over landfills—galvanized steel pipes instead of copper, cheap wiring, unlicensed workers, Chinese drywall. This for the newest, most sensational, not to be denied Power Tower. “Value engineering,” Artemus called it. But Jacks, who’d had his own issues with architects, saw it for what it was: crap.