Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “Where is home? Where is home, I ask you!” The reverend was suddenly standing in front of Jacks. He placed a hand on Jacks’s shoulders and held it there. Jacks couldn’t have left if his feet were on fire.

  “You don’t know, do you, son? You don’t know and that’s why you came here, and we’re going to show you right now, aren’t we, brothers and sisters, aren’t we, Lady Catherine and Brother Joseph? Aren’t we, my children? We are all sheep, all sheep of His flock. Some sheep, they white, the sheep here, they black. Yes. But He is our shepherd, He is guiding us up that hill. And where is His home? Where does Jesus live? Where does His father, our Father want us to be? Where can He find us?”

  “TELL IT, BROTHER FRANKLIN!”

  “Home is here, my brothers and sisters. Home is where God lives. Home is in you!” The reverend poked a long finger in Jackson’s chest. “Are you ready to go home? Are you?”

  Jacks struggled to speak. “I think I am.”

  “I didn’t hear you, son.”

  “Ah…I think so?”

  “What’s the holdup, son?”

  Jackson hesitated. “Well, for one thing, I live on Park Avenue.”

  The reverend stopped. Then started laughing. He raised his arms and the singing began. “Son, it’s okay with me and it’s okay with the Lord—but someone like you, you gonna have to pay your way to heaven.” He called over the tithing man. “Pass the hat!”

  “I thought you couldn’t pay your way to heaven.”

  “You can if it’s your only choice.”

  Jacks handed him a fifty.

  “Good gets good, son.”

  More.

  More.

  More.

  More.

  Jackson emptied out his wallet. A blizzard of bills spilled onto the tithing plate.

  “You on your way, son!” The reverend turned toward his constituents: “He’s on his way, my children!”

  Caprice, her adrenaline pumping, was caught up in the human wave. She stood, clapping wildly. Jacks felt as though an electric shock had run through his body; his mouth was dry, his chest ached from the current. He knew the Reverend Dr. was speaking the truth. He knew it like he knew his own name.

  Home, Jacks thought. Home. I need to get home.

  42

  RECESS

  ADRIAN RAN around the reservoir. Checked his messages. Went for a bite to eat. Checked messages. Went to a French film. Checked messages. Went back to Central Park again, running some more.

  It had been two days. Why hadn’t she called him back? Oh God. Was he that bad? Was Jacks, in the end, right about him? He’d counted at least three orgasms. Was she faking? He knew actresses—this woman wasn’t an actress—she was the real thing.

  Adrian thought he should try her again. What if something had happened to her?

  He wasn’t going to call her again.

  Fuck her. After all, it was just a job. He’d lived up to his end of the bargain. There was no fine print stating otherwise, nothing that said, “My wife must fall in love with you.” Nothing that said, “You must have sex with her three times a week for the next six months.” Nothing that said she should offer Adrian a country home in Roxbury where she could stable him.

  This much he knew: Cynthia didn’t seem like a woman who’d be holding off a divorce much longer.

  Was she devastated? Adrian hadn’t smelled devastation on her, the stench that hovers over the wreckage of a broken heart.

  Jacks seemed to be wrong about everything concerning his wife. How could that be, to know someone for twenty-five years, to sit across from her at the breakfast table, to have seen her cry, laugh, to watch her skin change, her tastes change—in clothing, in food, in movies, books, politics—to sleep with her next to you night after night, to see her droopy eyes in the morning, her egg-beater hair, to have watched her brush her teeth over and over and over, to have seen her go to the bathroom. To have witnessed the birth of their child. Maybe he wasn’t in the room. Nah. Jacks probably wasn’t in the room.

  Adrian would want to be in the room. Would want to cut that cord. Would want to be the first to hold that baby.

  He wondered about Vivienne. A momentary flash. She liked his kiss.

  Why wouldn’t Cynthia return his calls? Well, Adrian thought, he still had his invite to the NYBT ball. He’d been fitted for a tux. They were seated at the same table. Cynthia couldn’t escape him there. She’d have to face him then.

  Adrian tossed his cell in the air, caught it behind his back, and ran full speed all the way to the scene of the crime—the apartment in the sky.

  JACKS settled back into his seat as Harry nosed the car out of the church parking lot. Okay, so Lara was out of the picture. But Jacks Power could find his way home. He could turn this ship around. Just watch.

  First, make a list. What are Lara’s issues?

  Drinking, lack of commitment, family (she barely talks to her mother, what’s that about?). Okay, and she’s way too opinionated. They’d had an argument once regarding crushed versus chopped garlic. Neither of them can cook.

  Last item on the She Did You a Favor by Dumping You List: Did Jacks really want to be known as Mr. Sizemore?

  Jacks Power had to be the biggest star in the room.

  Couldn’t happen if Lara were in the picture.

  And so the new strategy. Jacks could change on a dime. You bet.

  Jacks convinced himself that Lara was “damaged goods.” He’d drop those words into everyday conversations, a throwaway yet damning portrayal: Damaged Goods. And that’s a fact!

  Second: no listening to Sinatra, Céline Dion, or Bread for the next three weeks.

  Third: No secret midnight viewings of The Way We Were.

  Fourth: Go home. Win Cynthia back.

  Face it; this whole divorce thing had been hasty. Kinda hard to be logical when you’re thinking with your cock-brain. Did Jacks really need to flush millions of dollars down the toilet? (To be fished out by Ricardo Bloomenfeld!)

  The king and queen could undergo relationship rehab: a romantic getaway, a sparkly necklace, a few turns in the sack—the famous Power mojo.

  He could see the headlines now: THE PEOPLE’S BILLIONAIRE, BACK IN THE MARRIAGE BUSINESS; REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO PROFITABLE. (Make a note: call Liz, call Cyndi, call Larry, call Imus…call Caprice!)

  He looked out the window of the car. A glorious fall day in New York. No time like the present.

  OH my God, this day, Cynthia thought, breathtaking! Even the trees of Washington Square Park, skinny and bereft of visible life, struck modern dance poses. Today was the reason to move to New York. Tomorrow would be another story, another wind; a reason, perhaps, to move away.

  Noon on Sunday. Cynthia discovered Vivienne still in bed, rolled up in her epic-thread-count sheets, head stuck in her laptop. Cynthia crawled in next to her and, squinting, read the screen.

  “Climbing tours in Nepal,” Cynthia commented.

  “Change of scenery,” Vivienne said. “I’m sick of this city.”

  “But trekking over a mountain range? Why not just fly to London, or Paris,” Cynthia said, her regret almost as instant as the hurt on Vivienne’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” Cynthia said quickly. “Let me check it out.” She curled her legs under her while perusing ice cream cone mountaintops. Yaks. Buddhist monks. Crooked, blackened teeth. Temples. Lined, cheery faces. More yaks. Water. Poverty. Dirt. Beauty…

  “Yaks,” Cynthia said, pondering.

  “It’s stupid,” Vivienne said, shutting the laptop. “You’re right. I’m just looking for any escape. I’m a rich, spoiled brat. I don’t care if I do wear cheap clothes—”

  “Who are you talking to, Vivienne? I know your clothing allowance.”

  “Fine. I’ll get a job.”

  “Such a beautiful day,” Cynthia said. “Can we schedule an identity crisis later?”

  “I’m serious, Mom. I need to get a life. That’s what Aiko said.”

  “You have a life,” Cynth
ia said, “but you’ll get another one. After Nepal. Let’s go together!” She grabbed Vivienne’s hand.

  “Mom, it’s like camping. But with yaks,” Vivienne said. “Yaks smell. They’re dirty. Mom, they’re…how do I say this…? Animals.”

  “I grew up riding horses. How different can yaks be?” Cynthia said, as she flipped open the computer. “We’ll go after the gala.”

  “You know I’m not—”

  “‘Going to that awful thing with those awful people,’” they chorused. Cynthia put her arm around Vivienne and kissed the crown of her head, where her curls began, then gazed out the picture window overlooking the park, imagining the personal dramas being played out: NYU students debating, junkies scoring, toddlers walking on wobbly legs, mothers crying from newborn delirium, old men ambling along and remembering what it was to run after that girl, the girl. Cynthia could happily die here, in this moment with her daughter.

  Instead, her phone trilled.

  Cynthia had downloaded Teddy Pendergrass as her ringtone. Too much wine, weak moment, don’t ask.

  Vivienne looked at her, incredulous. “Love TKO?”

  “Long story,” Cynthia said, clapping the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Hold for Jacks Power, please.” Was that Caprice?

  “Wait a minute—” Cynthia said.

  “Honey,” Jacks said. “It’s me. Jacks.”

  “Honey?” Cynthia said. “Jacks, what do you want?”

  “Just sitting here wondering what you’re up to,” Jacks said. Cynthia could tell he was calling her from the guest wing bathroom. His voice echoed and ricocheted across all the marble. Jackson Power Surround Sound.

  Why was he calling her? And why was he being so nice? Suspect phenomena—Cynthia was sure there’d be legal repercussions. “I’m with Vivienne,” Cynthia said. “We’re planning a trip to Nepal.”

  “Nepal?” Jacks asked.

  “What’s wrong with Nepal?” she snapped, although she’d had the same reaction. Ah, the Divorce Games, some day to replace the Olympics.

  “I love Nepal!” Jacks said. “Hey, do you think I could go?”

  Cynthia rubbed her forehead. “Jacks. This is Cynthia. The woman you’re getting a divorce from.”

  Jacks glided past the remark. “I’ve always wanted to go to Nepal. What are those dumb animals called? The ones that Michael Jackson owns? I like those things.”

  “Yaks?”

  “No, that’s not it—hey, you and Vivienne want to go to Central Park today?”

  “You want to go with us to the…park?” Cynthia asked. Vivienne pressed her head against Cynthia’s to listen in.

  “We haven’t been in years,” Jacks said. “Remember that time we went and Vivienne, she was two or three, insisted on not wearing diapers and she peed all over the merry-go-round?”

  “Jacks, I told you that story. You weren’t there.”

  “Okay, so I want to be there now.”

  “Vivienne is twenty-five years old.”

  “So let’s not waste any more time. I’ll meet you and Vivienne at the pond, we’ll feed the ducks, we’ll sail one of those motorized boats—”

  “Dad, I don’t want to go to the park.” Vivienne finally spoke up.

  “Vivi, hi, honey!” her dad said. “Okay, I’ll meet you guys at the Museum of Natural History. Half an hour. Under the whale.” Beat. “The whale’s at the Natural History, right?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Cynthia looked at her, mouthing the word “Daddy?” Vivienne stuck out her tongue at her mom.

  “Great. I’ll meet you there,” Jacks said. “We’ll get a hot dog outside. This’ll be fun!”

  He hung up. But not before Cynthia and Vivi heard Caprice ask, “Do you need me to pick up the hot dogs, Mr. Power?”

  Click.

  Cynthia looked at Vivienne. They both started laughing. “We MUST go,” Cynthia said.

  “I’ll get dressed,” Vivienne said.

  “I never even told you about my date!” Cynthia said.

  “In the car,” Vivienne called out, leaving a trail of clothes behind her as she walked toward the bathroom. An echo of a tan line taunted her mother.

  Cynthia resisted the urge to encourage the new cayenne pepper diet. Let sleeping clothes lie. Then, she thought about Dr. Gold and imagined his big chest bursting with pride. “You’ve learned something,” she imagined his voice saying. “Finally. My work is done here. Now go, spend the rest of your days enjoying. Breathe. Dance. Love. Share.”

  Cynthia smiled. Oh, contentment.

  “And you were wrong about Zorba,” Goldie said, in her mind, the mind that seemed crystal clear even though it still felt soaked in wine from Friday night.

  Vivienne came out of the bathroom, dressed. Jeans. Old cowboy boots. Ski hat ambushing her curls. A ratty scarf. “Do you have to wear that?” Cynthia asked, frowning.

  The Path to Enlightenment was strewn with mothering potholes.

  THIRTY minutes later, the People’s Billionaire stood beneath the ninety-four-foot whale, submerged in the ambient blue light of the Hall of Ocean Life, waving wildly at Cynthia and Vivienne.

  “Honey!” he bellowed, kissing a stunned Vivienne on the cheek. What was with that scarf? he thought. Why didn’t she straighten her hair? And she could lose a couple pounds. Vivi was a smart girl. Good business sense, tough cookie. He’d seen her negotiate her grades at Spence. But God, where’s her Power style sense?

  “Sweetheart,” he said to Cynthia, nipping her on the cheek, failing to get a taste of lip. Adrian couldn’t even close the deal on a middle-aged (though spectacular-looking) broad. A kiss, yeah, whatever. Thank God they hadn’t fucked. Jacks didn’t know if he could take Cynthia back after that kind of betrayal.

  “Isn’t this great?” Jacks said, oblivious that neither woman had uttered a word. “Look at that thing.” He jabbed his thumb at the whale. “It’s huge!”

  Cynthia and Vivi just stared at him.

  “This is going to be a great day, the greatest day ever,” Jacks continued. “First, we got the Natural History. Next, we got lunch at Serendipity—frozen hot chocolate, your favorite, right, Vivi?”

  Vivienne and Cynthia continued to look confused.

  “And then, baby, Daddy has a surprise for you.”

  “Just add it to the list,” Vivienne said.

  Jacks laughed. “Don’t even try to get it out of me!” After Serendipity, Jacks planned to head to American Princess, or American Kid or whatever it was, where his beloved daughter could pick out and dress her very own doll.

  All right, he knew Vivienne wasn’t six years old—he couldn’t help that, even Jacks Power couldn’t control Father Time! But Jacks needed to pick up all the memories he’d missed. Today he and Vivi would go to the museum, buy dolls, and eat sundaes. That would take care of ages three to eight. Tuesday or Wednesday they would take in a Broadway show (Wicked? Hairspray?) and buy horse gear. Boots, breeches, tack, maybe even a pony. Ages nine to fourteen: done.

  Meanwhile, Caprice was making a list of places to go and things to do for the father of a teenager in Manhattan—shops, hangouts, nightclubs, concerts. Before he knew it, they’d be all caught up on Vivienne’s formative years. Jacks figured it should take about a week.

  Jacks put his arm around her shoulders. “I just want to spend time with my family. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Jacks,” Cynthia said. “You and I are getting divorced the good old-fashioned way. Remember? The nonamicable way—”

  “Don’t be a party-pooper,” Jacks said, extending his other arm around Cynthia, squeezing the two women together against his chest. “Let’s go check out the cavemen—”

  “Dad, I don’t want to look at the cavemen,” said Vivienne evenly. “I’m not ready for all this paternal attention. It feels icky.”

  “You always were a tough kid,” Jacks said, laughing and shrugging off the sudden drop in temperature. “I like that. Now, come on, let’s go see the cavemen—”r />
  “Daddy, seriously, should we call a mental health professional?” Vivienne asked as Jacks pulled his women tightly under his arms, dragging them off toward the Hall of Human Origins, where cavemen dwelled in their diorama on prime Manhattan real estate.

  LARA hadn’t driven in months; she’d forgotten how appealing it was to spend time alone in a car. She’d rented a burgundy luxury sedan, a car her grandmother would have favored. Maroon, Lara thought, as she signed the rental agreement. How appropriate. Here I am, marooned on an island, the island. Without love and without work.

  That was over an hour ago. She’d been slinking north along a cold highway; she’d felt her breath return only when she saw the partially deformed isle of New York sinking in her rearview mirror.

  Equipped with hastily written directions, a navigational device she had trouble taking seriously, and her own sense of Manifest Destiny, Lara was her own unsettled country. She needed focus. She needed an ally.

  Lara was on her way to Sarah Kate’s goat cheese farm. Her beloved producer had turned her back on a network career for a bucolic, bleating lifestyle. Lara had received e-mail bulletins from Sarah Kate on a weekly basis: “Good news. We’ve fixed the pens after last week’s fiasco—who knew goats could chew through chicken wire?” or “Here’s a JPEG of the bags draining whey into buckets” or “Sylvia just birthed a pair of kids at two o’clock this morning—first photo of the newborns (entitled ‘Jus’ Kiddin’).”

  Who is this person? Lara thought as she read the reports. And what has she done with my producer?

  Two hours north, one hour east. Radio stations popped, fizzled, and twisted melodies into frayed rope, leaving only a country music station and a raging conservative in their wake.

  Thoughts of Jacks stayed with her. Would he ever try a road trip? In her mind, he sat next to her, chattering, laughing, checking his BlackBerry. Wanting to stop somewhere to eat, have a drink, have sex. Wondering where all the people were to recognize him. Lara placed her hand on the curve of the passenger seat, sinking her fingertips into its maroon softness. How could someone so impossible be so adorable?