Playing the Palace

by Paul Rudnick

  As I instantly pulled away, horrified at what I’d done, I caught myself staring at Edgar in apologetic alarm on a Jumbotron. He clapped me on the back as if we were frat buddies, and then someone on the field got into a shoving dust-up with someone else, the crowd got distracted and vocal and on another Jumbotron I saw a woman holding a hand-lettered sign reading “I’m sitting near Prince Eddie and his strange new friend!”

  “I’m so sorry!” I wailed, once James had ushered Edgar and me into a nearby private tent after the match. “I did what you told me to, about picturing the players having sex, and I got carried away. Was that a huge fuckup?”

  “Of course not,” Edgar assured me, “and it was my fault for transforming the match into an X-rated free-for-all. And this is all very new, but we should remind ourselves to be careful.”

  He was being nice and we both knew it.

  “But with so many of these rules and precautions,” I said, “I’m not sure I get it. I mean, you’re out, which is so great, and you’re single. And most of all, you’re a symbol for queer kids and queer adults all over the world. You’re the guy. You’re our hero. You’re the out prince.”

  Edgar was clenching and unclenching his fists, with a clouded look on his face.

  “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m not sure you fully grasp what you’re saying. The implications. The responsibility. Every moment of every day.”

  “Edgar?”

  He held up a hand, controlling himself. What had I done?

  “When I first came out, I wanted to believe that I was doing something logical and human and completely positive, and I hoped that the world would respond in kind. I wasn’t naive, but I was eighteen years old, which meant I was so sure of myself, of everything. I was doing what had to be done. I was telling the world, ‘This is who I am.’”

  “And I admire you so much—”

  “Wait. Because I need to say this. It wasn’t an easy time. Before that my private life had been exactly that: private. Although of course everyone would speculate the moment I was even introduced to a girl close to my own age, and the media would contrive a bedpost-rattling love affair. There were contests and betting pools: ‘Choose a bride for young Prince Edgar.’ And it had to stop. I knew I was gay, and my family knew, but it was made clear that anything more public presented a real danger. My grandmother proposed that I lead a kind of double life—she listed numerous examples, in royal families, in our own family, since time began. But I asked her, was that what she really wanted? For me or for anyone? A life of endless deception?”

  “Did she get it?”

  “Eventually. For the most part. She wasn’t any sort of homophobe or puritan, but she was concerned. Not so much for the royal reputation, but for my safety. So I raised the question: what did she think my parents would’ve wanted me to do?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “She was at a loss, which never happens. With tears in her eyes. Because my mum and dad had been, as much as possible, free spirits. They’d cultivated friendships with artists and actors and writers. They were curious. And in fact, the flight they were on, it was en route to an enormous music festival, a fundraiser for AIDS research and health care.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “And part of the tragedy, for Nana, was that royal couples are instructed to fly separately, to avoid such a catastrophic result. But my parents had scoffed—they were very much in love, and they’d wanted to experience the world together. And Nana has always blamed herself, for not being stricter, for not saving at least one of them.”

  “So when you wanted to come out . . .”

  “All she could forsee was further heartache. But she was aware, of how proud, and how accepting my parents would’ve been.”

  “And when you did it, all I remember is total celebration. I was a senior in high school, and I saved your cover of People, and I kept showing it to everyone and telling them, look, he’s smiling. He’s so cool. It made such a difference.”

  “But you were already out, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, and my family was great, but I still felt, I guess maybe the way you did, that being out wasn’t just about me. It had to be about all of us. And you were our rock star.”

  “And a spokesperson. And a lightning rod. The planet’s most well-known official homosexual. Because unlike so many figures in the arts, I wasn’t perceived as an outlier, or a bohemian. I was the good boy, the scrubbed face, Prince Perfect. But there was also an enormous backlash. I’ve rarely addressed it, because I’ve never wanted special treatment of any kind. And the Palace preferred to minimise all of it, the good and the bad. But along with the most thrilling support, there was a firestorm of hatred. For every housewife who cheered me on and just wanted me to meet the right bloke there was a fundamentalist or far-right politician or neo-Nazi who reviled me. There were death threats, and there still are, which demand heightened security. My appearances remain limited, especially in other, less tolerant countries. James insists.”

  I should’ve caught on to these repercussions. But I’d clung to Edgar’s image of carefree openness. I’d expected him to be a queer heartthrob, an out citizen of the world, a leap forward.

  “And now here I am. The role model. The lab rat. Which is a position I take seriously. If I make a misstep, it’s viewed, fairly or not, as a mark against gay people everywhere. And I’m not just talking about the conservative response. I receive just as many, if not more, accusations and insults and taunts from other gay people. I’m too vanilla. Too acceptable. Too straight-seeming. I’m out but not out enough, or not in the correct manner, or never sufficiently standard-bearing. The out sellout. The assimilated android. And again, I’m not complaining, I know that I’m far beyond lucky, and that my being out is nothing compared to a kid being bullied, or beaten, or abandoned by his family, or hurled off a building or stoned to death in accordance with another nation’s legal system.”

  “But today was just a rugby match . . .”

  “But it counts. Everything counts.”

  Edgar stared at me with a weary anger.

  “Carter. I don’t want to discourage you or speak from some haughty celebrity high ground. But this is a major part of why I invited you here, and into my life. Up until now, you’ve been anonymous, which I envy. You can wander. You can experiment. You can meet hundreds of men and have every kind of sex and stumble home the next morning and discuss it with your roommates.”

  “Well, not hundreds of men . . .”

  “You know what I’m saying . . .”

  He sat on a folding chair, shaking.

  “Should I go?” I asked him. “Back to America?”

  “Would you like to?”

  I thought about this. Should I continue blundering, and making Edgar miserable, and shaming my LGBTQ peers? Would I relish becoming an even more public target for the Internet’s scorn? I’d met a wonderful person, but Edgar was far more complicated than that. He was a leader and a grandson and, at times, a nervous breakdown in progress. Could I handle that? Was I strong enough? But something had changed with this conversation; there’d been a shift in the balance of our relationship. Edgar was slumped on his chair, steeling himself for another scandal and another bad choice and another goodbye. He needed me.

  “No, I don’t want to leave,” I said. “Unless you’d like to have me deported. Or unless your grandmother creeps into my room with a dagger. But I’m not going anywhere, and do you know why?”

  Edgar looked at me with a yearning hopelessness, as if he was drowning and I was in a lifeboat a few feet away, checking my phone.

  “Here’s why.”

  I walked over and kissed him.

  “You are so not playing fair,” he said.

  “I know.”

  And this time he kissed me.

  CHAPTER 19

  The next day Edgar and I had lunch with a ga
ggle of his friends, which included schoolmates from Oxford, three titled cousins, a video artist and a poet. There was an unspoken physical code: if the group thought a stranger was hovering to sneak a photo, they’d gracefully block the angle. They didn’t interrogate me, but I could tell I was on probation. They were raucous and teasing and they had something in common with my New York posse—a protectiveness. Adam and Louise and I could say anything to one another, the funnier and more slashing the better. But if anyone outside our circle made even the mildest snide remark, we closed ranks. I was glad Edgar had friends like that. I just wished he had an Abby, although she was already on the case.

  During the afternoon, Edgar took me to the National Portrait Gallery, the House of Lords and Westminster Abbey. At each stop, a private viewing had been arranged, as if Edgar and I either owned these buildings or were considering a summer rental. It was an amazingly personal way to visit landmarks, but it also felt closed in, as if we were touring a communist country and being restricted to government-approved exhibitions.

  “Think of it this way,” Edgar said. “Imagine we’re checking out the alarm system before breaking in and stealing a Rembrandt. And no one would ever suspect me.”

  “Everyone would blame me!” I told him.

  “So it’s a perfect crime.”

  Following dinner at the palace, we made a great show of retreating to our separate bedrooms. But after five minutes of contemplating Edgar’s shoulders, I brushed my teeth again, did a few push-ups, gave myself a smoldering I-could-be-a-model-if-all-the-real-models-died look in the mirror, and stepped out into the hall, coming scarily face-to-face with Queen Catherine, who was wearing a flannel robe and carrying a small plate with what looked like a brownie. Was she shadowing me? Didn’t she ever sleep? Most monarchs would have staff members bring them late-night delicacies, but Catherine liked to do things herself.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

  “Um, I was looking for . . . an extra pillow?”

  “You are seeking my grandson’s bedroom in hopes of a torrid sexual encounter.”

  “And that.”

  “I’m not a prude. I’ve enjoyed a robust physical life. But there’s far more to a successful relationship than merely, what is that phrase you younger people use? Hooking on?”

  “Hooking up.”

  “Which sounds like some uninviting form of knitting or crochet. Yes, lovemaking has its appeal, but it’s far from the entire equation. And from what has been reported, your attendance at a rugby match earlier today resulted in a squalid and extended display of sexual excess.”

  “It was a hug!”

  “One too many. So you shall return to your solitary chamber and review your priorities, along with enumerating the higher pursuits which you and Edgar might share.”

  “We went to a museum!”

  “Congratulations. Were you awarded a doctorate?”

  “You’re just going to stand here, aren’t you? To make sure Edgar and I don’t have sex.”

  I feinted to the left, but the queen deftly countered. I tried to duck under her elbow and nearly lost an eye.

  “You’re not going anywhere, strumpet,” she gloated.

  Strumpet? Now I was a strumpet? Was she strumpet-shaming me? And doesn’t “strumpet” sound more like a French dessert or some bold-new-taste American corn chip?

  “Well, I am tired,” I admitted, innocently. “So maybe I’ll just turn in.”

  “A wise decision.”

  “Good night, Your Majesty. Sleep well.”

  “And you. What was your name again?”

  “Carter.”

  “Martin.”

  I closed the door and counted to fifty, slowly. I inched the door open and was confronted with an uncompromising royal eyeball. I’d become the last cheerleader left alive in a horror movie.

  I shut the door and FaceTimed with Abby, who was lounging by her honeymoon resort’s infinity pool.

  “So she’s like the hall monitor?” Abby asked, laughing.

  “It’s not funny! I’m her prisoner!”

  “But you and Edgar still like each other?”

  “We do. Today was—major. Remember when he came out and you made me that mood board of all the famous gay people?”

  “And I ranked them,” she recalled. “By who I thought you should hang out with, like Neil Patrick Harris and Rosie O’Donnell. But we still weren’t sure about SpongeBob.”

  “But from talking to Edgar,” I said, “I realized something. Everyone on that board didn’t only come out. It’s like they added the words ‘Openly Gay’ to their names whenever they’re written about or introduced. Which I love, but I guess—it’s a weird position to be in. Edgar’s still working on it.”

  “But do you remember what I told you, back then? About coming out?”

  “Of course. You said that anyone who comes out should get their choice of a free car or a trip to Disney World. And right now, I’m sort of getting both. As long as I don’t make any more stupid mistakes.”

  “You will,” said Abby, cheerfully. “But when will you get that it’s okay? Especially if you’ve met the right person?”

  “Stop. Don’t jinx it. Knock on wood. I mean it.”

  Abby obligingly knocked on Dane’s head as he lay beside her wearing a NY Yankees ball cap, listening to a game on his earbuds.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Abby.

  I’m not positive, but in my dream later that night, I could swear I heard the queen’s supervillain laughter, cackling, “Keep it in your pants, New Jersey sexboy!”

  CHAPTER 20

  I made every effort not to be cranky over breakfast the next morning in one of the palace’s smaller dining rooms, which meant that Edgar and I were seated only twenty feet apart at either end of an unwieldy mahogany table.

  “She lurked last night, didn’t she?” said Edgar. “Nana. In the hall.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Only when she thinks I’m about to slip out and have a good time. She’s like, what was that devil doll’s name—Chucky? The one who keeps popping up and mauling babysitters?”

  “I think she’s worried about us, but especially about me.”

  “So today we’re going to prove Nana and everyone else wrong. We’re going to provide a serious and important demonstration of our most caring and responsible selves.”

  “Please don’t make me try and understand Brexit. Because the closest I can get is if New Jersey broke away from New York and floated out to sea while Connecticut laughed.”

  “We’ll attend to that later. I’ll be gentle. Today we’re going to do some good.”

  This sounded daunting. I try to think of myself as at least social justice–adjacent, and I’ve volunteered to plan fundraisers for Hetrick-Martin, which is New York’s LGBTQ high school, I’ve advised on poster art for a great trans candidate’s city council campaign, and I’ve done charity walks and registered voters. I want to offer whatever skills I have, but I’m intensely minor compared to Louise, who tutors at-risk gay kids three times a week, and Adam, who’s active in Broadway Cares and, with DuShawn, delivers hot meals to people living with HIV and other chronic illnesses.

  “We’ll be opening a new wing of a children’s hospital,” Edgar explained in the car. “I’ve spent years flattering billionaires, getting them to pay for thirty beds, twelve new nurses and a protected outdoor area where the kids can get some sunshine. You’d think rich people would be instantly forthcoming, but it’s an older facility in a low-income neighbourhood, so persuasion has been necessary.”

  The St. Garvin’s Hospital for Children was a collection of red brick Victorian buildings resembling a small-town college. There was a huddle of press and mobile TV units outside the entrance, along with a decent-size crowd of onlookers. Edgar
answered every personal question with a reply centering on the hospital, while I stood slightly behind him and to the left, practicing a smile that was interested and alert without being goofy. Dr. Sarman Vatshul, the medical director, led us inside.

  “The children are so excited to see you,” said Dr. Vatshul as health care workers and patients lined the halls and Edgar posed for selfies; he had a gift for making each person feel heard, rather than patted on the head and dismissed.

  “It doesn’t quite make sense,” James murmured to me, “but His Highness brightens everyone’s day. He’s not a vote-hungry politician, or even a film star with some superhero bilge to promote. It’s about service.”

  We reached a large, open room where about thirty patients had gathered, all under ten years old. Some were in wheelchairs and others used crutches, with three children on gurneys. Their parents and siblings stood along the walls; photographers had been allowed in, and of course everyone had their phones out.

  “Children,” announced Dr. Vatshul, “please join me in welcoming our very special guest, His Royal Highness Prince Edgar.”

  Edgar grinned and quieted the applause and cheers. “Thank you, but today is about you, so let me ask—is everyone enjoying the new wing?”

  More cheers, although one little boy announced, “It’s all right, but there should be candy!”

  “Absolutely brilliant,” Edgar agreed. “There must always be candy. And I will consult with Dr. Vatshul. But have you all had a hearty breakfast?”

  Everyone nodded, as Edgar said, “But it’s not really hearty without chocolate chip cookies, is it?”

  On cue, James, the security team and I opened five large boxes of cookies still warm from the palace kitchen. I’ve never felt more popular, like a vivacious spokesmodel handing out prize money on a game show.

  “These really are good,” said Charles, splitting a cookie with Ian.

  “These are for the children,” I scolded, splitting a cookie with Lucky.