Playing the Palace

by Paul Rudnick

  “Edgar,” I said, “meet Dr. Abigail Ogden.”

  “GET OVER HERE!” Abby commanded, and Edgar bravely stood as Abby cannonballed toward him, enveloping him in white satin and nearly lifting him off the ground.

  “You are the loveliest bride I’ve ever seen,” gasped Edgar, still in captivity.

  “And today I’m the only bride in the entire world with you at my ceremony and reception.” And then, addressing the room, while clutching Edgar’s hand: “I want everyone to remember that! I want you to tell your children and your grandchildren!”

  “So it’s okay?” I asked, as Abby hugged me and Edgar simultaneously and decreed, “It’s way beyond fucking okay!”

  She took Edgar’s hand and dragged him toward some available chairs in a more private corner, and I followed them, both excited by their collusion and checking around for steak knives to cut my throat at whatever Abby was going to say next.

  “Okay,” she began, to Edgar, “first of all, you’re adorable and you look just like in your pictures only a little bit taller, so yay! Second of all, we need to talk about your grandmother’s dogs and a thing I read online that said you were dating Matt Bomer, which made me very worried, because I thought he was happily married to another guy.”

  “As I believe he is,” said Edgar. “And I’ve never met either of them.”

  “Good,” said Abby. “Because here’s my bottom line. Carter, come over here.”

  “I am over here.”

  “Edgar, you see this unbelievably cute guy, even if he doesn’t think so? He’s just been through a total nightmare trainwreck with a person we will not even name, because I’m a surgeon, so he’s lucky I haven’t cut out his despicable nonexistent heart and made it look like an accident. But he treated Carter like garbage, I won’t go into details, but one word: cheating bastard.”

  “That’s two words,” I corrected.

  “Shut up. So, Edgar, I’m going to tell you one thing: if you hurt my brother in any way, even by accident, even for a second, I will hunt you down, and all I can say is, your brother will become king and your body will never be found, not even as diced onions made of royalty.”

  I’ve always loved that, for a doctor with infinite benevolence for children, Abby has the most luridly violent inner life of anyone I’ve ever met.

  “So Edgar, Your Highness, whatever, we’ll figure out what I’m going to call you later, but right now I need to hear it, from your royal lips: are you going to be good to my brother?”

  “I would very much like to try . . .” Edgar began.

  “Trying isn’t doing. Are you going to be good to him, and treat him with the caring and sweetness and respect that he deserves?”

  Edgar glanced at me without moving his head. I made a helpless I-have-no-power-here gesture.

  “Yes,” Edgar said, forcefully.

  “Yes?” Abby asked, not giving an inch.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear!” Abby exclaimed, going for another bear hug as I offered Edgar a good-job thumbs-up.

  “Honey?” said Dane, Abby’s new husband, strapping and square-jawed in his tux with a magenta-and-blue rose on his lapel and a magenta-and-blue yarmulke embroidered with “Abby & Dane” and the date.

  “Dane,” said Abby, “this is Prince Edgar of England, who’s just sworn on his life not to treat Carter the way you-know-who did. And Edgar, this is my husband—I love saying that! This is my husband, Dane Lefkowitz, who’s the most incredible man I’ve ever met, and I love him to pieces.”

  When Abby said this I knew that, given Abby’s recent remarks, Edgar and I had both just visualised Dane in cornflake-size fragments.

  “Good to meet you, dude,” said Dane, shaking Edgar’s hand—did anyone in England ever call the crown prince “dude”?

  “You’re the luckiest fellow,” Edgar told him.

  “I am!” Dane said, his arm around Abby.

  “He really is,” Abby averred wholeheartedly.

  “And Abbs,” I said, gently but firmly, “unless you have something you need Edgar to sign, in blood, isn’t it time for cake?”

  There were two cakes, one an eight-tiered, powder blue and magenta rosettes-and-lilies, buttercream-and-rum super structure, and the other only three tiers of a gluten-free, nondairy alternative. And I’m not even mentioning the table with those Christmas-tree-like wire stands stacked with magenta and powder blue cupcakes.

  “Not yet,” Abby told us. “First we’re gonna dance!”

  As the evening progressed I observed the following things:

  • For a guy who’d resisted loosening up at the UN, Edgar was a surprisingly out-there dancer. When we joined Abby, Dane and what my mom termed the “younger people” on the floor, Edgar moved like someone determined to break a sweat and let his limbs do whatever they pleased. I like to think of myself as a great dancer, but Edgar’s what-the-hell whirling made me rethink my patented club-trained cool. We danced like people at a New Jersey wedding, which was much more fun.

  • Edgar was willing to eat things I’d never go near. Royals, like politicians, are availed upon to at least sample every possible food and feign enjoyment, but Edgar devoured Abby’s socially aware delicacies, including a meatless sirloin, a cucumber lasagna and flourless mini-donuts decorated to resemble wedding rings. These last items offended me on a primal level, because they tasted like children’s aspirin mixed with construction paper. “They’re actually quite tasty,” Edgar insisted, “if you’ve never had food.”

  Edgar was really good at his job. Before the cakes were served, I toasted Abby and Dane, raising my glass of champagne and declaring, “I have the best sister in the entire world and I’m so glad she’s found the perfect guy. And they can never get divorced, because Abby will never be able to find a more incredible wedding gown!” Abby stomped her feet and whistled, and then she surreptitiously jabbed Edgar with a fork, to indicate that he should make a toast as well. He obliged, saying, “I’ve only just met the beautiful bride and her dashing groom, but I’m in awe. Some of those in attendance today may have seen coverage of various royal weddings, but I can only say this: America, and specifically Abby and Dane, do it so much better!”

  The crowd, naturally, went berserk, and I had a flash, from Abby’s eventual video album, of His Royal Highness standing beside me and beaming. How was this in any way my life? I’d known Edgar such a short time, and he was already scoring a huge win at my sister’s wedding, and he’d just put his arm around my shoulders. My immediate response was a brain-bomb of trepidation: I knew I’d fuck this up; the only questions were how and when. My mom shot me a look, because she could tell I was spiralling, and she mouthed the words, “Stop it!”

  After a trip to the restroom to pull myself together, I couldn’t find Edgar, until James approached me and confided, “I believe His Highness is engaged in conversation with your great-aunt Miriam. I’ve served in two wars, dealt with the media and wrangled Her Majesty Queen Catherine. But I will say only this: Miriam scares me.”

  My great-aunt Miriam is maybe four feet tall in the flesh-toned patent leather pumps she buys in bulk, with a towering, shellacked hairdo tinted a shade my mom calls Ash Blonde Eternity. I’ve never seen Miriam with her hair even slightly relaxed, so it may be a permanent achievement, much like her rice powder makeup accented with unblended circles of rouge and lavishly applied red lipstick. I love the way Miriam looks, because it’s not based on anything human; she’s going for German Expressionism or Kabuki sheet cake. She’s always very well-dressed in stiff, glittering brocades reminiscent of Miami Beach hotel bedspreads, with coordinated handbags the size of steamer trunks. Miriam’s handbags seem to be handcuffed to her birdlike wrists, due to her armloads of bracelets in Italian gold, Mexican silver and Home Shopping Network Ping-Pong ball pearls.

  Miriam had sequestered Edgar in the lobby, possibl
y at gunpoint, and sat facing him, both of them on gilded bamboo chairs, their knees touching, the interrogation lacking only electrodes and snarling Dobermans.

  “So someday, when your grandma dies, God forbid, kina hora,” Miriam was saying, and then she mimed spitting on the ground three times by saying “Poo poo poo” to keep the evil eye away—this was a Yiddish expression she used, and who’s to say it doesn’t work? “Then you’ll be king, Mr. Big, all the marbles, am I right?”

  “Yes, that will be the line of succession,” said Edgar. Miriam grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes as if she was about to deliver a psychic prophecy.

  “Being the king is a tough job. My late husband, Morty, may he rest in peace, he ran a carpeting business, he was the Broadloom King of Ronkonkoma out on Long Island, so it was a similar responsibility, only it was maybe even harder, because I bet no one ever asks you for a fifteen percent friends and family discount on wall-to-wall in a wool/nylon blend, am I right?”

  “That’s very true.”

  “So let’s cut to the chase. Eddie—can I call you Eddie? You’re a nice-looking fellow, and you’re gay, which I think is just dandy, and do you know why? Because my first cousin Frieda was a lesbian, she flew cargo jets in World War II, because they wouldn’t let her into combat, and then she lived with her ladyfriend, this pretty young schoolteacher, until the day she died. They couldn’t have been happier, and when somebody would make a remark, I would tell them, so Frieda wears slacks, just like Katharine Hepburn, what’s it to you? So when Carter told me he was gay, do you know what I said? I told him, Carter, since you were five years old you’ve kept a scrapbook of table settings, do you think I’m blind? And Eddie, look at you, you’re single, you have a nice career ahead of you, you’re English, but I’m not holding that against you, I enjoy English people, I dated Churchill, I’m kidding, I don’t date married men, but let me ask you, and I’m talking about your relationship with Carter—what are your intentions?”

  This question was exactly why I’d worried about bringing Edgar to the wedding, both because it was wildly unfair to put Edgar on the spot and because I was longing to hear his answer. Edgar’s session with Abby had been intense, but this was Final Jeopardy. So I jumped in, exclaiming, “Miriam! It’s so great to see you, and have you heard that they’re about to distribute the centerpieces?”

  Miriam’s face twitched, because during the waning moments of the reception, all guests would lift their dinner plates, seeking a parchment card embossed with the happy couple’s initials. This card entitled the owner to claim their table’s elaborate floral centerpiece and they’d later carry it to be stowed in the trunk of their car. Arriving early for just this purpose, Miriam had already moved the card from beneath the plate of an outlying niece to her own, because, as she’d told my mom, “I’m sure that Lauren would want me to have the centerpiece, because it would look terrible with all of her IKEA furniture, which I’m not criticizing, but why does she want to live in a Swedish dorm room?”

  Miriam knew that Lauren, as a vindictive, recently divorced life coach, was more than capable of moving that card right back, so she stood, saying, “Eddie, it’s been a pleasure, and I hope I’ll be seeing more of you. You shouldn’t feel nervous just because Carter comes from such an accomplished New Jersey family, or because you’re a gentile, which is sad, but it’s just like having poor posture or a ketchup stain on your shirt—we’ll all pretend not to notice. And I should mention, I’m a semiretired CPA, so if you’d like me to take a look at your taxes, let’s stay in touch.”

  Miriam handed Edgar a business card, which was laminated (“In case anything splashes”) with her name, email, and a 3D picture of her face emerging from a red rose, beside the slogan “Miriam Yansky, CPA—Helping Your Assets Flower.”

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I told Edgar as I steered him toward the exit and the parking lot, “we don’t have to stay, you’ve been unbelievably great and I owe you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve been enjoying every moment, and we’re not leaving without proper goodbyes and a centerpiece.”

  An hour later, after Edgar had been thoroughly kissed, hugged and pinched and Miriam had tucked dinner rolls into the pocket of his suit jacket (“As a nosh, for when you’re on the road”), James placed our centerpiece in the rear of the SUV and we all climbed inside. As we hit the Turnpike, Edgar asked me, “What is wrong with you?”

  CHAPTER 12

  He went on: “You have an utterly delightful family, yet you work yourself into fits of embarrassment over a group of people who love you with near-hurricane force. Your heavenly if slightly ferocious sister only wants you to be happy, and your parents would battle a marauding army to bring that about. And as for Miriam, while her handbag may contain weapons of mass destruction, I fully intend to contact her on behalf of the British economy. Why are you such an unnecessary mess?”

  I could tell that not only Edgar but James and our driver were eager for my answer. I took a shot at the truth: “Okay. You’re right. I spend too much time worrying about what my family thinks of me, and trying to predict their opinions, and getting scared that I’m turning into them, although that’s already happened. But here’s my real problem: I don’t want to disappoint them. They’re fine with my being gay, and they sort of get why I’m an associate event architect instead of a neurologist or the next Mark Zuckerberg, but when they think about my love life, the jury is still out. Abby fixed me up with three different guys, all doctors she works with, but then she showed up on the dates and told the guys to leave because she thought I could do better. My mom volunteered to go into therapy with me in case she was holding me back, and my dad keeps sending me profiles of different Shakespearean characters he thinks would be great matches for me. And Miriam once texted Callum, my ex-boyfriend, asking him to describe our sex life so she could give pointers. And because she was doing his taxes for free, he did it.”

  “And what was her advice?”

  “I can’t repeat it, because I only glanced at her bullet points, which included ‘water-based lube’ and ‘advanced nipple play.’ The real point is, my greatest and totally justified fear is that they’re right and I get in my own way and I talk myself out of happiness and I’m barely holding it together. So when I brought you to the wedding, I knew that everyone would be ecstatic beyond belief, and that there’d be enough kvelling to make God complain about the racket.”

  “‘Kvelling’?”

  “It’s a Yiddish word,” said James, “describing extreme and vocal good wishes. As when your grandmother greets her corgis.”

  “Yes, but even beyond the kvell factor, I know they were all looking at you and thinking, ‘How did that happen? He’s too good for Carter,’ and most of all, they were probably placing bets on ‘How is Carter going to fuck this up?’”

  Realizing what I’d just said and how far I’d overreached, I was about to open the SUV door and hurl myself onto the turnpike.

  “So in other words,” said Edgar, “if I understand this correctly, you’re being you.”

  “Yes. So if you’d like to drop me off at a rest stop and head for the airport, I wouldn’t blame you. And I’m still being selfish, because when I was little I loved turnpike rest stops because they have gift shops.”

  “No. Because first of all, we’re driving you home.”

  We sat in awkward silence for the next forty-five minutes, until the SUV pulled up in front of my building. James opened my door, and I assumed Edgar would stay inside, but he stepped out as well. We faced each other in front of the brownstone’s corroding steps.

  “Carter,” Edgar said, as I stuck out my hand for a farewell handshake.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re a strange and confused person. But before I leave for London there’s something I would very much like to do. May I come up?”

  “Come up? You mean, to see my apartment?”

 
“Among other activities.”

  “You mean you want to . . .”

  “If you’d like to.”

  “But is that really a good idea?”

  Edgar turned to his security detail, saying, “Carter, I’ve been incredibly rude. You haven’t been properly introduced to my superb team. Please meet Ian Hoagland, Charles Wintermore, Clark Dartley, Terry Winton and Lucky Bartle.”

  “You guys are amazing,” I said.

  “Yes, they are,” said Edgar. “They’re the finest security force not merely in London but in the world. So let’s ask their opinions. Gentlemen, do you think I should accompany Carter up to his apartment?”

  The men scrunched up their faces, as they decided.

  “I’d say absolutely,” offered Clark.

  “We’ve been discussing it among ourselves for days,” said Ian. “What’re you blokes waiting for?”

  “Maybe you’re not really gay,” suggested Terry.

  “Miriam asked me about it,” confided Charles.

  “Otherwise you’re just wasting our time,” concluded Lucky, who had an impressively broken nose.

  James sighed and addressed both of us: “If you must.”

  As we climbed the five flights I channeled my mother, racing through a to-do list: was the apartment and especially my bedroom anywhere close to tidy, or at least nontoxic, were there clean towels and non-budget toilet paper, and had Edgar ever been in a rent-controlled apartment where the tilting bookcases covered the cracks in the walls, and oh my God, because this was my mom’s greatest terror, beyond plague or earthquake, would there be any visible bugs? Sometimes, just to upset her, while I was on the phone with my mom I’d pretend to be scolding the bugs, telling them, “Hush, it’s Sarah, we’ll play charades later.”