Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “That we’re back together. The Power couple. We’re back. What are you wearing? A little color would be nice. You look a little pale. I’ve been meaning to tell you. You should gain a few pounds. Not that you’re not beautiful. You’re stunning. For your age, especially.”

  “Jacks. Stop.”

  “Stop?” He looked confused.

  “Yes,” Cynthia said, “stop talking and don’t talk again until you are outside on the sidewalk.”

  “You want me to leave?” Jacks asked.

  “Now,” Cynthia said.

  “Oh, I see,” Jacks said. “You’re wondering about the other…well, she’s gone. I’m completely done with all that. I lost my mind. It was nothing. A big nothing. You, you’re the real deal. We are the real deal. The King and Queen!”

  “Jacks. Now,” Cynthia said, very deliberately. She gathered up his clothes and put them in his hands.

  “Okay, still mad,” he said. “Feeling feisty. That makes sense. That’s fair. I can deal. This dog’s got to earn his way out of the doghouse.”

  He turned to walk out of the room, then turned back, excited. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to woo you, Cynthia. You’ll see. I’m going to woo my own wife!”

  “Out!” Cynthia yelled, pointing at the door.

  Jacks smiled and walked out. He couldn’t wait to start his next big project—he’d made inroads with Vivienne today, Vivienne who was a mystery, so hard and so young. But by the end of the day, they’d exchanged, gingerly, tender jabs of the familiar. He was getting to Vivienne. And if he could get to his daughter, he could get to his wife. He could get his wife back, his life back.

  The Reverend Dr. was right. There was no place like home.

  Especially if home is on Seventy-first and Park.

  44

  OUTFLANKING

  CYNTHIA WAS pacing in her office, pausing only to partake of the diet Red Bull on ice the maid had discreetly placed on the antique oak desk that once belonged to the baron of a Mayflower family. At least, that was the designer’s story, Cynthia thought. Jacks had finally handed Cynthia a gift she could use: no, not his penis—information. If Fred were in financial straits, Cynthia could threaten to expose him to the board. How many members would remain in his camp if expensive favors started drying up and blowing away? How fast would Three-Named Bruce Harold Raymond change his tune?

  Cynthia had appeased and accommodated, remained fair and reasonable—and had still been slapped down. What did she have to lose by finally hitting back?

  How about her “Number One Good Girl” status?

  Fuck that.

  “Hello, Fred, how are you?” Cynthia said to herself. Caffeine on ice was helping her climb out of her sexual exhaustion and into a manic state.

  “Fred, I’d like to fill you in on changes I want to make this season—if you’re interested.”

  She paused. Gulped down more of the Bull. And burped.

  “Fred, you are a fat man with an enormous appetite for everything, including destruction.”

  The maid, having heard her mistress’s imaginary conversation, approached. “Another Red Bull, missus?” masked a maneuver to find out if Cynthia was losing her mind (and to report back to the rest of the staff, de rigueur). The penthouse at 740 was Upstairs, Downstairs but with a greater variety of accents; Brogue Irish, British, Uruguayan, French. They’d been on high alert for months, keeping two panthers apart; Cynthia in the master suite, Jacks in the guest quarters.

  And now, the panthers had mated! What next??

  The staff deserved to have their little fun, Cynthia thought, as she settled into her chair, and dialed.

  Shoulders back, tummy tucked, sit bones steady.

  Cynthia stood and sank into a plié when Fred’s maid answered, then rolled back and forth on her toes, rehearsing in her mind words that would somehow navigate their way to her lips. Mother? she thought. Zorba? Goldie? Help!

  “Mrs. Power,” a voice grumbled. “Oh, I mean Cynthia.”

  Mount Plotzicki was going to be a rough climb, Cynthia thought. She would need all of her provisions.

  “Fred,” Cynthia said, fighting the urge to hang up, “you have to stop this shit.” What? What did she just say? A smile started working its way to Cynthia’s terrified surface.

  “Now wait a minute, Cynthia.” The voice deepened.

  “No. You wait a minute, you overgrown toddler,” Cynthia said. “You’re destroying this company because of your petulance and I’m not going to let you do it. I’m giving you two options: you play in the sandbox, and you play nice, or you walk away—but you do not light the sandbox on fire, you big…baby!”

  “Cynthia, I’ve never heard you talk like this—”

  “I’ve never heard me talk like this—but Fred, so help me, I am done being made a mockery of by you or anyone else!” WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM? Cynthia’s inner voice screamed. AND CAN I HAVE MORE, PLEASE? the inner voice asked (but in a nice way).

  “Now…just calm down,” Fred said.

  “I’m calm, Fred. I’ve never been more calm. Because you know what? You’re talking to a woman who’s got nothing to lose.”

  “You have a wonderful reputation—”

  “Fuck my reputation.”

  “Cynthia. Do you really want to fight with me?”

  “I’m not going to fight with you. I don’t need to. Your world is on the verge of imploding, Fred, you know it and I know it. I make one phone call, and you lose the board. I make two phone calls, and guess what, you lose your reputation.”

  Cynthia heard a sound, like a slow leak from a hot air balloon.

  “I’ll call off the dogs,” Fred finally said.

  “Not good enough,” Cynthia said. “First, you need to sit down with Margaret Lord Foster and tell that old bitch to reinstate her support of this company, or I will leak it to anyone who will listen that her husband buys fishnets at that lingerie store on Madison and they are not in her size.”

  Beat.

  “Is that all?” Fred growled. More like a Chihuahua—less like the Doberman of Wall Street.

  “No,” Cynthia said. “You are going to keep your big mouth shut about me or this company, or so help me—”

  “Will do, Cynthia,” he said. “Can I make this up to you? Would you like to go out to dinner sometime?”

  Cynthia was taken aback. “Of course not. You’re married,” she said.

  “My wife left me. You only read your gossip, apparently.”

  “About time she left,” Cynthia said. “Good for her.”

  “So that’s a no?”

  “Just…do what I asked,” Cynthia said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Fred replied.

  Cynthia hung up and caught her reflection in the mirror above her desk.

  She had color in her cheeks, and her eyes were sending off sparks. Sure, she was wearing the Balenciaga V-neck Vivi had made her purchase—but it was more than that. She’d traded in Polite Cynthia for Warrior Queen Cynthia; Polite Cynthia had given up her power for too long to men—Jacks, Artemus, the Freds—even the Bruces.

  Think, Cynthia thought, what else can the Warrior Queen change: What do you want to see? Where do you want to go? What do you want to learn?

  Whom do you want to fuck?

  Or fire?

  Cynthia picked up the phone to dial, then put it back down. This next conversation would take place in person. Time for the bitches to take over. Cynthia was ready to take the bull by the cojones.

  Or maybe it was just a hot flash.

  45

  THE WOOING OF A QUEEN

  GOOD NEWS, Harry. Good news,” Jacks said, as the car rolled into traffic.

  Harry grunted. Always good news when you’re rich.

  “Yes, I am getting back together with my wife, thanks for asking.”

  Harry shook his head. Cynthia! She was almost over wall—what was she thinking?

  “And thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Harry honked his
horn; Jacks checked his BlackBerry.

  Still no e-mails from Lara. Eh, he thought, it was for the better. He rubbed that empty spot in his chest. Still, there was disappointment. How could she just forget about him? Just like that. She should look at him now. He was back in the saddle. With his beautiful wife, his soon-to-be-beautiful daughter. Jacks Power was on top of the world.

  And hoping that empty feeling would go away. Maybe he just needed a good meal. “How you know?” Harry asked. “You know what’s in a woman’s mind? In her heart?”

  Jacks looked at the back of Harry’s big head. Goddamn it if he didn’t feel like punching it.

  “How do I know? I just know. What the fuck?”

  “My wife, I know her since we were rebyata—I know her braids, her dimples, I know the bottom of her baby shoes, her tooflis. But you know something? I don’t know her at all.”

  Things had not settled down in the Harry the Russian household.

  “Well, do what I do,” Jacks said. “Learn from the master. You have to try to know her again, Harry. Maybe listen every once in a while. Maybe talk instead of yell. I don’t know. Take her out to dinner. Buy her roses. It’s easy!”

  “I’ll try,” Harry said. “I think at certain point, what is determined is.” “That makes no sense. That’s what you call ‘fatalistic’—and I am many things, Harry, many things, but fatalistic is not one of them. The thing’s not dead until it’s buried. And even then, even then—”

  He lost his train of thought. Would Lara ever be just a memory? A flat-screen playing scenes in his head on occasion?

  Jacks dialed Caprice. If he was going to woo his wife, he could not be expected to do it alone. But first: “Harry, we need to make a quick stop.” Jacks needed to tie up a loose end—one that he had loosened himself.

  And now needed to get rid of.

  MARGOT was in bed with a buzz-cut twenty-two-year-old dancer from Wisconsin when Cynthia let herself in. Her second bedmate, a dancer from a Philadelphia ghetto, older and more experienced at twenty-five, was showering off.

  “Aren’t you getting a little…mature for this?” Cynthia said, as she watched Margot get dressed. The twenty-five-year-old traipsed through, wrapping a towel around his waist at the last minute.

  “Don’t you mean ‘old’?” Margot grinned. “Because ‘mature’ ain’t gonna happen.”

  The two boys were now in the kitchen, where Cynthia could see them pouring themselves overflowing bowls of Froot Loops. Margot always kept the sugary stuff on hand for the younger merchandise.

  “The little one was curious about my legendary flexibility,” Margot said, as she lit up a cigarette and handed it to Cynthia.

  “Hope you enjoyed it,” Cynthia said, “because my new artistic director can’t be screwing the dancers. I don’t need the bad publicity.”

  Margot waved the smoke away from her face. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you,” Cynthia said. “You’re the new artistic director of the NYBT.”

  “Yeah, fuck you,” Margot said. She slipped a sweater over her head without dropping the cigarette from her mouth.

  “I’m dead serious,” Cynthia said, images running through her head: Was this her twenty-seventh New York Ballet Theater Fall Gala? Her first year was indelible: she’d been a featured dancer in a pas de deux while dessert was being served—she could barely hear Brahms above silverware tinkling and murmurs of patrons anxious to dash to limos, which waited like prehistoric creatures exhaling exhaust into the clear night.

  Few years later: a baby arrives. Then, another baby. Cynthia went from dancer to patron. “Patroness” had become attached to Cynthia’s name—the caboose at the end of Power. Dancer. Former Dancer. Then, only: Patroness.

  Twenty-seven years later: Cynthia was done busying herself with the usual set of horrors; mismanaged seating arrangements—ex-wives next to ex-husbands next to mistresses, business rivals seated across from each other—light skirmishes between pawns. All bullshit. It was time to move the major players around on the board. The NYBT was about to put on a performance that would be respectable. Again. And stun no one. Again. Cynthia could do better with this company. Live dangerously, dance dangerously, Cynthia thought. Zorba.

  Goldie.

  “I can’t be an artistic director. I…” Margot stammered.

  “I?” Cynthia prompted.

  “I don’t have the temperament for it.”

  “Margot Ashford afraid? I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

  “I’m too old to carry that kind of responsibility. I’ve never even had a husband! Cynthia, I’ve never had children! A dog, a goldfish—I’ve never owned a goddamned plant! I can’t even keep milk without it going bad!”

  “And yet, you’ve stayed with the same ballet company for over twenty-five years.”

  “I’m clinically unstable. I’m on meds. All sizes, shapes, and colors—”

  “Enough with the bragging.”

  Beat.

  “Okay. I’m scared,” Margot confessed.

  “You’re also immensely talented. And inspirational. Most importantly, you’re respected by the dancers. They are in awe of you.”

  “They won’t listen. They’re like puppies.”

  “They will when you have more power,” Cynthia said. “Now, Margot, I took this position because of you. You owe me this.”

  “Low blow.”

  “We’ll triumph together.”

  “Or we go down together, more like,” Margot said.

  “Either way, we live boldly.”

  “I feel nauseous.”

  “I know! Isn’t it great?” Cynthia clapped her hands.

  “The media will skewer you, the Times will lift its leg and pee all over you—” Margot said.

  “Fine,” Cynthia said, “I have a lunch meeting this week with Adeline Crisp, the Times critic. I’ll tell her face-to-face. Then let the chips fall where they may!”

  “Why you little Machiavellian—”

  “Margot, you’re a genius. I’ve always known it, since our first day of hating each other,” Cynthia said. “Now others will know it, too. I love you, you know. That’s why I’m doing this to you.”

  “I hate you, you’re fucking up my life.”

  “You hate your life. You’re bored and it shows. Look at those boys in the kitchen! It’s time for you to be challenged. Now shut up and say yes. I have a firing to get to.”

  “Shut up and say yes?” Margot asked.

  “Zorba!”

  “Yes! Fuck! YES!”

  The two dancers poked their heads in the bedroom door. “Everything okay?” the younger one asked.

  “No!” Margot said, falling backward on the bed.

  “SHIT,” Adrian said to himself. He hid his face in his scarf and hightailed it past the doormen, valet parkers, and security outside the blue glass building. Something was up. There was that one black Town Car in the sea of Town Cars parked in front of the building. That silly hat, fur poking out through a crack in the driver’s side window. Who could forget that hat?

  Elevator to the nosebleed floor. Hi to the nice neighbor lady with the mink-collared dachshund, Mr. Fibbs. Key in the door.

  Jackson Power was lounging on the couch, feet up on the coffee table.

  “You want the report?” Adrian said, trying to sound nonchalant. Why so nervous, A?

  “I’m no longer in need of your services,” Jacks said, standing up and brushing the front of his pants.

  Adrian ran his hand through his newly cropped hair.

  “Really,” Adrian said.

  “Hell of a job, you did,” Jackson said. “Scared Cynthia right back into my arms.”

  Adrian looked at Jacks. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Hell no,” Jacks said. “We’ve reunited. We’re getting back together.”

  Adrian took a moment to let the information soak in. Then he started laughing.

  Jackson appeared ruffled. “What’s so funny?”
>
  Adrian shook his head and went to the kitchen to pour himself some water. “Well, it’s just that it’s a surprise,” Adrian said. “She didn’t seem to miss you much, that’s all.”

  “Oh really, Big Shot?” Jacks asked.

  “Yes. Really.”

  “Listen, I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

  “What I’m insinuating is what you paid me for.”

  Jackson suddenly rammed his hand into his jacket pocket, searching for something, as Adrian watched.

  “You in a hurry?” Adrian asked. “To get back to the woman who doesn’t want you?”

  “Fuck you,” Jacks replied. “You don’t know shit.”

  “No. You’re the one who doesn’t know shit,” Adrian said as he ambled into the living room. “Every answer to every fucking question I asked you about your wife was wrong. You don’t know Cynthia any better today than you did the moment you met her.”

  “You’re lucky I’m Jacks Power, kid, otherwise I’d throw you out that plate glass window,” Jacks said. He finally produced his checkbook, scribbled on a check, ripped it out, and tossed it at Adrian’s face. “For services rendered. You and I are through. This never happened. And stay away from my wife.”

  “How about we let the best man win?” Adrian said.

  “Oh yeah?” Jacks asked. “How would she feel about the real you. Huh, barkeep?”

  “How would she feel about the real you, scumbag?” Adrian said. “Hiring a lowly bartender to fuck her and get her off her husband’s filthy hands?”

  “You have ten minutes to clear out of here. Before I send Harry up. And I never want to see you again. You hear me?”

  “I’ll only take five. I don’t need all your crap. And neither does Cynthia.”

  “Two minutes!” Jacks yelled, then rushed out, slamming the door behind him.

  Thirty seconds later, beefy security officers were escorting Adrian from the premises, one giant mitt under each arm.

  “Careful with that!” Adrian yelled, as they tossed his duffel bag to the ground in front of the big blue monster; he hoped a few of the Burgundies he’d stolen had survived the ride.