Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  The empty shell, drained of blood and matter, smiled and nodded.

  JACKS tried to recover his equilibrium by counting tables. He’d been counting tables at his events since he could remember. If the number of tables hadn’t gone up from one fancy dinner to the next, he was sorely disappointed. Disappointed? Not the word. Outraged. Occasionally, someone had lost his job over the diminishing store of tables—even if it was because the room was smaller. Say there were forty tables at one dinner, and the next had only thirty-eight. Someone was responsible for that. Someone was responsible for his humiliation. “No one else even noticed,” Caprice would tell him. “No one else would know in a million years, Mr. Power. Why you bother with these things?”

  But he knew. He knew.

  But this night, he couldn’t count. He would start and someone would talk to him, he would forget the number he left off at and start over, but the thing is, it never bothered him before, having people come up to him, it never bothered him, never would he forget, he could have a ten-minute conversation and he wouldn’t forget.

  His head wasn’t in the game.

  Did he not care anymore? What had he lost if he didn’t care about the number of seats filled with shiny bottoms all there to honor him? Who was he if not the guy who cared about the details?

  What next? Would he stop caring about the window on the twenty-third floor that’s an infinitesimally different shade of glass from the rest (and only when the sun hits it just so at 4:21 in the afternoon)? The gutter that’s a half-inch off? The plumbing contractor who’s charging .05 percent more than a lesser competitor? What next?

  He could see his entire kingdom crumbling, its foundation reduced to dust, the rest sliding into oblivion, and it all started here, with him not being able or willing or having lost his heart for counting tables.

  A singer had sung. A group of underprivileged children had clambered onto the stage and testified to the generosity of one Jacks Power. He didn’t recognize any of them. Had he spent the requisite fifteen minutes with them at their Bronx schoolyard?

  Krach was about to take the stage. The MC, a late-night TV host, had introduced him. Something sortakinda funny about the mayor’s lack of experience in government.

  Funny, if you’re not trying to build in the East Village.

  The mayor began. “Tonight we’re here to honor a man who…”

  “I’m lost,” Jacks whispered to Lara.

  “What’s that?” Lara whispered back.

  “What did you mean, you’re not sure what you’ll be doing next?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “We need to get married,” Jacks said.

  “We are going to get married,” Lara replied, “I just don’t know when.”

  The mayor was warming to his speech, a joke inserted about one of Jacks’s legendary photo ops/press conferences: “…never met a historical landmark he didn’t want to tear down…never met a Miss USA he didn’t want to…give a lot of personal advice to…” Then he launched into the capper: “The Top Ten List of things to do that day if you’re Jacks Power.”

  10. Fire me, the mayor. Talk about it at length on Larry King Live.

  9. Send muffin basket laced with Ex-lax to Bowery Preservation Group.

  8. Think up fun new names for tax loopholes, like “Sparky” and “Jurgen.”

  “I need a date,” Jacks was telling Lara. “June? July? When?”

  7. Admire self in mirror. This may take some time. Decide on best side.

  6. Destroy historic neighborhood before brunch at the Four Seasons.

  5. Rename New York City “Power Town.”

  “You’re pressuring me,” Lara said through clenched teeth. “I just lost my job today, I need to regroup.”

  4. Rewrite Page Six. Include adjectives like “dashing,” “unstoppable,” and phrases like “sex god” and “damn, he’s good.”

  3. Admire self in mirror. Decide on other best side.

  2. TP the New York Post offices. Same to the Zeckendorfs.

  1. Develop new pose and call it “The Jacks” or, better yet, “The Power Pose.” Copyright immediately.

  Laughter and applause rumbled through the room. Jacks smiled and waved at the mayor—

  “Keep it down. You hated that job,” he reminded Lara. “You don’t even care that you lost that job. You wanted to lose that job.”

  “That’s crazy,” Lara whispered back. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Crazy? What’s crazy is that you screwed it up on purpose. You knew they would fire you.”

  Though in his estimation, Jacks was speaking low, people were starting to capture the gist of their conversation. Not an eye wavered—

  “Let’s talk about this later.” Lara beamed her smile, reassuring the multitudes.

  “No,” Jacks insisted. “I want to talk about this now. I’m giving you three dates. June fifteenth—”

  “You’re not even divorced yet!”

  “It’s taken care of. You’re talking to Jacks Power—okay, we got June fifteenth, July tenth—”

  Every head was turned their way. Lara wasn’t backing down. “This is ridiculous, I’m not going to do this—”

  Jacks couldn’t stop himself. “August fourth the latest.”

  “I said—I’m not doing this.”

  “You would if you loved me. If you really loved me, I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  The mayor’s speech had come to an end.

  “Of course I love you.”

  “No you don’t! No, you don’t love me!” His hand came down on the table. Silverware jumped. The waiters stopped serving. No one was moving a muscle—

  “You’re acting like a child!”

  “You’re acting like a bitch!”

  Lara looked at him.

  The last he saw of her was her smooth, golden back, those shoulders, oh, her calves emerging then disappearing under the sparkle of her evening dress, her famous mane bouncing happily, oblivious to the devastation as she ran out of the ballroom with the who-knows-how-many tables.

  Wait. Wait. She was coming back—look at that face, that beautiful face, she feels bad, I knew it, Jacks told himself, she’s already picking the date—

  Ouch. Getting hit in the chest by seventy-two carats of diamonds and emeralds stings. The necklace dropped to the floor, winking up at him.

  What had he done? What had he done?

  Jacks Power would figure this all out. Jacks Power would solve everything.

  Right after he picked up his trophy.

  41

  QUEEN TAKES PAWN

  THERE’S NO escape,” Cynthia said, standing outside her car, looking up at the ominous blue towers Adrian called home. She laughed, one arm wrapped across her sliver of a waist, another over her mouth.

  Adrian had come around to open her door. He’d been reduced to polite gestures, genteel mannerisms, everything he was, in fact; he was no longer pretending to be anyone else. “From what?” he asked.

  “From Jacks Power!” she said, as the looming towers hovered like glass demons, the famous name stamped in heavy gold letters. “Is there anything he doesn’t own?”

  She walked past Adrian, as he still held the door open. He could feel the driver’s smirk on his shoulders.

  “No,” Adrian said sullenly. He slammed the door.

  “HOW LONG have you lived here?” Cynthia asked. They were inside the mirrored elevators, looking at themselves looking at each other pretending not to look. Well, Adrian was pretending not to look; Cynthia was studying him like something out of Animal Planet—a small furry mammal with underdeveloped defense mechanisms, short nails, blunt teeth good for chomping plants.

  “Not long,” he said, to the tiger. Tigress.

  “Why did you choose this building?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s practically one of the eight wonders of the world—” he stammered. Oh, the stammering.

  “Aren’t there seven?”

  “Well, then, because
it’s…so…modest—like me?” Perhaps humor would work with the tiger that was toying with him, tossing him back and forth between her paws.

  “This building doesn’t suit you,” she mused. “It’s like public housing for high society. I know a few people who live here. They’re nothing like you.”

  “And who am I?” he asked.

  They’d reached his floor.

  “Not who I thought you were.”

  Oh, he hoped she didn’t hear his heart beating through his cotton T, his silk shirt, his gray, slim-cut jacket. He dropped his keys, picked them up, opened the door. There was the view. He felt like running through the midnight-blue glass into the midnight-blue oblivion.

  “Don’t you want to know who I thought you were?” she asked. Cynthia was tipsy.

  Adrian, ever the professional bartender, calculated body weight, divided it by alcohol and time, and decided he was dealing with full-on id.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Adrian asked. “I have a very good Bordeaux, ’86, reserve—”

  Cynthia dropped her purse on the couch and flopped beside it. She’d put her boots up on the glass coffee table and draped her head back. Her eyes closed.

  “I will have a glass, thanks,” he said to himself. He went to open the bottle.

  “Robert Jordan. I thought you were…a dilettante. Undignified. I thought you were…typical.” She said the word “typical” as though it were laced with bad cologne.

  “So you thought you’d ask me out.” He brought her a glass. After all, her husband had paid for it. Along with everything else in the apartment, including him.

  “So I thought I’d ask you out,” she said, gracefully acknowledging the touché. “But now I see something…surprising. Like finding a perfectly formed shell on the beach after a storm.”

  “I’m a perfect shell,” he said. She got it half right, he thought.

  “Not exactly,” she said, “but there may be hope for you yet, Mr. Robert Jordan.”

  “I appreciate the—”

  “What are those?” she asked suddenly. She was jabbing her finger at the centerpiece on the coffee table.

  “You don’t like yellow roses?” he asked.

  “Put them away,” she said.

  “But I thought—”

  “I hate yellow roses,” she said.

  Adrian stood, staring at the arrangement. He’d called it in; he’d been specific. A dozen yellow roses, cut just so…

  Cynthia Hunsaker Power was starting to scare him.

  “Aren’t they your favorite flower?” he asked. Stupid!

  She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, “a lot of women seem to like them.” Oh, King of the Idiots, wear your crown with pride.

  “You bring a lot of women here and they all like them—”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “Look, don’t bother putting them away—I’m going—”

  Adrian’s phone started ringing. “No, don’t—” he said.

  “You should get that, it’s probably one of those many, many other women who like yellow roses, maybe that’s where my husband got the idea that I like yellow roses, because that’s what all his other women liked—”

  The phone stopped ringing. Then started again. “Don’t move!” he said, “I’m going to take this in the other room, it’s a work thing, a work thing, not a woman thing.”

  Cynthia was standing, her purse in the crook of her arm; she might as well have been in sprinter’s position.

  “Please wait?” he pleaded, over the incessant ringing.

  She gave him a curt nod.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he said, closing the bedroom doors behind him.

  “I can’t talk,” Adrian said, his back pressed against the door, the cell jammed in his ear. He feared Cynthia could hear Jacks’s voice through the wall. Adrian was sweating. He unbuttoned his shirt. Remember to button it, he reminded himself, before you walk back into the lion’s den.

  “Why?” Jacks rumbled.

  “Cynthia’s here, of course,” Adrian said, flopping onto the bed. He wished he could take his fancy shoes off. An old pair of Converse beckoned from inside the walk-in closet. His entire “real” life was beckoning him.

  “Great. She’s there,” Jacks said.

  “No thanks to you,” Adrian said.

  “Are you…did you…have you…?”

  “We haven’t done anything—wait, we made out, a truncated version of making out—”

  “Are you striking out already?” Jacks said. “She could be your mother, for crying out loud—how hard is this?”

  Adrian heard something. He jumped up, opened the bedroom door a crack. Cynthia stood by the window, staring out at the water. Good.

  “How hard is this?” Adrian asked in a tight whisper. “How about impossible? How about this—you’re the one who’s striking out with your wife!”

  “What are you talking about?” Jacks said. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Adrian said. Cynthia’s impatience was pulling at him. Jacks was right—how hard should this be? Cynthia hadn’t slept with anyone in over six months, right? Unless…she was lying to her husband. (Go, Cynthia.)

  “Not until you give me a time frame—”

  “I’m working on it,” Adrian said, “but can I tell you something? You know nothing about that woman who’s pacing my living room like a tiger—a very annoyed tiger.”

  “My living room, junior. And I know everything about my wife,” Jacks said. “Believe me, there’s not much to know.”

  Adrian was insulted for Cynthia. There was nothing wrong with her; she was just an entirely different species from the one Jacks thought he’d captured.

  “Man, you have no idea who you’re divorcing,” Adrian said. He hung up and stepped down the hall and into the living room—just in time; she’d grabbed her coat.

  Suddenly, Adrian felt very tired. And remorseful.

  “I’m sorry,” Adrian said. “My boss, he’s a real prick.”

  Cynthia hesitated. “Why don’t you quit?” she asked, as Adrian maneuvered her toward the couch. “Life is too short to waste it on jerks. Trust me.”

  “Soon enough,” Adrian said, his voice heavy. “The job’s not over yet.” He sat down next to her, and poured more Bordeaux into her glass.

  “So tell me,” he said, as he slid closer to Cynthia and handed her the wine. “What else don’t you like?”

  MARGOT was at the barre, performing deep jetés, beads of sweat glistening on her bony chest, when Cynthia scooted into class and squeezed in next to her. The Saturday 8:00 A.M. ballet series, overseen by the old ballet master, had been their weekly ritual for fifteen years.

  “The fuck have you been?” Margot whispered. Her expression remained perfectly placid. The pianist, engaged in a Mozart sonata, was kind enough to cover her cursing.

  “My date just ended,” Cynthia replied. Together, they bent forward at the waist, then swayed back, their arms lingering overhead.

  “That’s my girl!” Margot said. “Good?”

  “Good enough to awaken the beast,” Cynthia said, smiling.

  “Now no one is safe,” Margot said.

  “No one.” Cynthia laughed.

  “Cynthia! Margot! Enough!” The ancient ballet master yelled.

  Margot turned her head toward Cynthia. “Coffee?”

  “I’ll be needing a triple shot.”

  “Girls!” The ballet master rapped his cane on the floor. Cynthia and Margot giggled.

  AFTER CLASS, Cynthia and Margot walked around the corner to the funky yet pretentious coffee shop frequented by preppies. Smoking their French cigarettes, wearing black tights, their hair in buns, headbands keeping strays off their faces—they each looked fifteen years old.

  “Very young,” Cynthia was saying.

  “How young?” Margot asked.

  “I think he’s still in his twenties.”

  M
argot took a deep breath in. “Love that. Have yourself checked immediately. These young guys carry new diseases.”

  “I brought condoms.”

  “Oh, my little Girl Scout, of course you did. How many times?”

  “Twice.”

  “Nicely done. Orgasms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Number, please?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Margot stopped and grabbed Cynthia’s arm. “Over or under five?”

  “Over,” Cynthia squealed.

  Margot screamed as they walked into the coffee shop.

  Cynthia couldn’t wait to tell Dr. Gold. In person. “There was a functional delay,” she admitted.

  “Alcohol?”

  “No—nerves!”

  “He was nervous?!”

  “Yes! It took him forever just to get the first condom on. Margot, he was nervous—about sleeping with me!”

  “How divine!” Margot clapped her hands to her chest.

  Cynthia’s old self, the one who lived in the Upper East Side terrarium world, would have taken her lover’s soft-on personally. She would have attributed his lack of firmness to something lacking in her own outline. Was it only a short while ago that she’d placed a hand mirror on her pillow to see what her face looked like from a lover’s perspective? All she could see were pleats! From that angle, her face looked like a cheerleading skirt. But last night, she didn’t give a shit about her pleats. She was on a hormonal roller-coaster ride, anchored ever-so-briefly at the peak, hands waving in the air, screaming, exhilarated…

  For a slim moment, Cynthia thought she should bring Robert to therapy to show off to Dr. Gold. “See what I did? I had sex with this! Me! Cynthia Hunsaker Power!”

  Robert had led her into the bedroom, but Cynthia was the first one with her clothes off. She’d been ready since she’d made the call. Cynthia was going to make it to the moon if it killed her.

  She’d stood naked, except for her pearls, against the window, a cape of stars resting on her shoulders. She thought of the man who’d brought that view to her. “Watch me,” she said, with Jacks in mind, “I’m going to sleep with this hot young guy in your very own building!”