by Paul Rudnick
As more passengers and crew members joined this open forum on my love life, the first flight attendant clapped his hands and said, “People? Come on, let’s leave the poor guy alone. He’s been through a lot.”
I was grateful for this but refused to cry until someone asked, “But why did he have to kiss that other guy?”
* * *
I’d planned on taking a cab from JFK, but when I got to the luggage carousel, there was Abby. She’d made an educated guess about which flight I’d be on, and she opened her arms and I let go, let it all out, and she held me for a long time.
“Come on,” she said, hefting one of my bags and leading me to her car. She drove us to New Jersey, pulling into the Piscataway IHOP parking lot. At first I resisted; weren’t IHOPs now cursed forever? Abby scoffed, and soon we were sitting in a booth, because this was, if not a solution, at least a temporary salve; maple syrup-flavored topping was my drug of choice.
“So,” she began as the waitress brought our pancakes, “I’ve watched the whole thing on YouTube maybe one hundred times, and here’s my thinking: you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But—”
“No. Sure, Callum was a total prick and you fell for it, but that’s not a crime. But then he lied, and Edgar should’ve believed you. He knows you. Why didn’t he trust you?”
I sighed. I was assembling my thoughts, telling Abby, “Because Edgar can’t trust anyone. And the awful part is, I understand why. He lives in this bubble where everyone’s after something, and his family and the whole world keep telling him who he should be. It’s hard to feel sorry for him, because of all his money and fame and whatever, but I saw it up close. I’m amazed he can even get out of bed in the morning.”
“Which is why you’re so good for him! I picked up on it, at my wedding. He called you out on your self-esteem stuff, and you made him laugh and loosen up and act like a person instead of a cardboard cutout welcoming tourists to Royalty World. And when you danced together, I was so thrilled, because, of course, my wedding gown had made you fall in love.”
For the first time in what felt like centuries, I smiled.
“Okay,” Abby continued, taking her cue from my smile, “so how do we fix this?”
I put down my fork, because there was only one answer: “We don’t.”
“Excuse me?” said Abby. “You’ve met the perfect guy, he adores me, and everything was going gangbusters, like total gay Bachelor put-a-ring-on-it finale, until this tiny little obstacle, this one minor hiccup. And you’re going to give up?”
“Abbs, it’s not just about Caroline and her morning-show massacre. If anything, I should thank her. Because being on that show, and the whole Callum shit storm, and Edgar’s reaction: it proved something.”
“Like what?”
I didn’t want to say this, but I had to. It was the first well-reasoned, rueful but accurate, adult decision of my entire life. “It proved that Edgar and I are—impossible, and we always were. That interview was an ultimate red flag. I got caught up, and maybe Edgar did too, in our whirlwind courtship, in the fairy-tale craziness, in the prince and the peon trope. It sounds good on paper, or in some gay teenager’s journal with doodles of doves flying around with rainbow banners, but it could never work. Edgar could never really let me in: he’s too scared, and everyone around him is too invested in keeping his life just the way it’s supposed to be, according to the ye olde royal nodding-and-waving-from-a-balcony handbook. And maybe he won’t always be alone, maybe he’ll meet someone who checks all the suitable-spouse boxes, like Maureen, and they’ll become a palace-endorsed team. But that’s not me, and it never will be.”
“But . . . but . . .” Abby was formulating a defense. “But maybe you haven’t tried hard enough, either of you. And maybe Edgar needs to stand up to his family, and you need to stop being so sane and mature and willing to take, like, romantic early retirement. You’re only thirty years old—”
“Twenty-nine. I’m still twenty-nine. For a few more months.”
“Which is way too young to be giving up! And didn’t Edgar tell you he loved you? Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Of course, and I’ll always remember it. My Disney prince Hallmark epiphany, with upchuck. But I don’t know if he even meant it, or if maybe he was feeling sorry for me, due to the barf, and . . . and I never said it back.”
“Which is on you. So this isn’t over. It can’t be. Carter, I have a patient, this little girl with a heart valve replacement. She’s going to be okay, although she was on a ventilator and she needs months of recovery. But she found out that I was your sister, and do you know what she keeps asking?”
“Why did I let Callum kiss me? And why did I tell Caroline to fuck off?”
“No. All she’s been asking about is a royal wedding. Because she wants to know what you’re going to wear.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I’m not, swear to God. I was going to introduce you, because she’d be over the moon. But not if you’re wedding-phobic. Not if you’re a total dickless coward.”
“I’m not a dickless coward! I’m being realistic! I’m saving myself, and Edgar, from making an even bigger mistake! So we don’t keep going and, I don’t know, have an even more vicious lightsaber battle on The Today Show or mud-wrestle each other on pay per view!”
* * *
Abby stared at me; we’d reached an impasse. But I was right, because I felt clear-eyed and older and grim. I felt like an almost-thirty-year-old grown-up. I finished my pancakes, and even though Abby makes a lot more money than I do, I paid the check. And granted, an IHOP bill isn’t a second mortgage, but I made my point. When it came to my life and my future and pancakes, I was in charge. Abby drove us to our house. She’d warned everyone to back off until I was ready to begin the healing process, which meant that as my mom opened the front door she said, “At least your skin looked nice on TV,” and my dad commented, “You should be grateful you’re not Gaveston, the male lover of Edward II, who in 1312 had him excommunicated and run through with a sword.”
Miriam was waiting in the living room. “This is what happens when you hang out with those royals, because they like horses more than people. I thought that Edgar, that Little Mister Crown Prince, I thought he was different, but he’s a cold fish, which is a meal only people in Connecticut enjoy.”
I stayed in my childhood bedroom for a week, staring at the posters for The Light in the Piazza, Avenue Q and a community theater production of Anything Goes, in which I’d played a tap-dancing sailor. I slept fitfully and ate only brightly colored, packaged foods. The Palace had issued a brief statement asking for people to respect His Highness’s privacy at a difficult time, and Gerald and Maureen held a briefing on the steps of their estate, cuddling their twins as Gerald told the assembled media, “I love my brother and he’s been granted a fortunate reprieve,” as Maureen echoed, “I’ve no interest in defaming or disparaging anyone, but as to Mr. Ogden, I’ll only say this: the man can’t hold his trifle.”
I went back to work, deflecting Cassandra’s hugs, her condescendingly sympathetic remarks (“I hope you’ve learned something”) and her requests for me to “get in touch with your grief-core and tell me everything.” I’d raise a hand and murmur, “Too soon,” so she could make compassionate clucking noises.
I moved back into the apartment, where Louise and Adam took over, telling reporters that I’d left town or that they were wielding sawed-off shotguns behind our locked door. They did what friends do, which was to resolutely take my side and to refer to Edgar as a dumpster fire, a lowlife and His Royal Shithead so I could protest, “No, he’s not that bad, things just didn’t work out,” and Louise could say, “He’s a pig-faced pile of white-privileged pee stains who never appreciated you on any level and fuck him until the people of England rise up and throw him in the Tower of London, or off the Tower of London,” and I could
nod meekly and say, “Maybe you’re right.” Adam and DuShawn acted out the woke, revised climax of a recent My Fair Lady revival, in which Eliza Doolittle brandishes her independence and leaves Henry Higgins in the dust, striding out of the theater itself by way of the center aisle.
I was recognized wherever I went, and I developed a sympathy for peripheral figures in heavily publicized scandals, for the escorts and porn stars and naive college students who’d dared to get involved with famous people and had been punished for it. I was contacted about a quickie book deal if I was willing to divulge sex secrets of the royals, which I turned down, even though Abby had speculated, “But what if it got made into an HBO Max original series and I could be played by Jennifer Lawrence?”
I no longer pondered romance as even an abstract concept or a lie repeated to sell paperbacks, greeting cards and weekend packages at hotels in the Poconos with heart-shaped bathtubs. When I was confronted with footage of Edgar running through a park with his security team or in full, resplendent uniform, saluting beside Queen Catherine as she reviewed the troops on a parade ground, I’d either shut it off instantly or stare at it numbly, to dilute its power. There’s a particular peril to breaking up with either an actor like Callum, or someone world-famous like Edgar: they’re everywhere. It’s like falling in love with the “Don’t Walk” sign, or earbuds, or the sky.
Which brings me to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner, several months after I’d fled England—or, more correctly, been kicked out on my ass.
CHAPTER 26
Thanksgiving was going to mark my return to normalcy, to getting on with life and if anyone brought up Edgar’s name, saying, “I met him once I think, at the UN.” When I got out to Piscataway, my relatives were doing their best, even Abby, who was still refusing to abandon hope for an Edgar/Carter rematch.
“There you are,” said my mom as I walked into the kitchen. “Don’t you look nice.”
“Our son is a very handsome man,” said my dad.
“Have you lost weight?” asked Abby. “Not that you need to.”
“You look good, dude,” said Dane, who’d been integrated into our family and was catching up with our demented strategies.
“If that fancy-schmancy little Prince-Stick-Up-His-Tuchus could see you now, he’d be sorry,” said Miriam, causing everyone to yell, “MIRIAM!”
We crowded into the dining room, around the elegant table; my mother’s holiday tablescapes are the true spark for my career choice. Tonight she’d premiered a new set of dishes, painted with bold oversize daisies, to honor my re-blooming. None of this related to the Pilgrims’ early meal with their Indigenous guests, but as my mother said, “If those Pilgrims had been Jewish, everything would have looked much nicer.”
“It looks gorgeous,” I told her.
“Are these new?” wondered Miriam, admiring her dinner plate.
“I found them online,” said my mom. “They’re from Finland.”
Except for boyfriends, imported is always better.
“Pish pish,” said Miriam, which was her most profound compliment, finessed with an unspoken, “Do we trust Finland?”
“Before we begin,” said my dad, passing out an essay he’d written and then copied on his printer, “I’d like to share my thoughts on the historical facts of this holiday, which was most likely inspired by a religious harvest festival of the Protestant Reformation. Relations between Governor Bradford of the Massachusetts Bay colony and the Pequot tribe were in truth plagued by violence, particularly on the part of the colonists.”
“I did not know that,” said Dane, taking an essay.
There was an incessant knocking at the front door.
“I hope that’s not Governor Bradford,” commented Miriam as my mom went to find out who was dropping by. “I would not let him in my house.”
There was urgent conversation from the foyer, and then Edgar’s security team trooped into the dining room and took up positions along the walls.
“It’s good to see you, Carter,” said Charles.
“We’ve missed you,” said Terry.
“Even your sweaters,” added Clark.
What was going on? For a heartbeat I wondered if Edgar was here, and I was sure Abby was thinking the same thing. But why was he descending on Piscataway? Had he changed his mind about everything? Or was he returning something I’d left behind in my rush to leave the palace—I’d never recovered my favorite bodywash or my workout gloves, all of which I’d quickly replaced.
But instead of Edgar, Queen Catherine entered grandly, in a lime green silk coat dress with matching shoes and bag and a hat with lime green velvet roses, all of which complemented my mom’s tablescape.
But what was the queen doing in our dining room, in Piscataway, on Thanksgiving? Everyone was staring at her in silence, which was the first time in recorded history that my family has stopped talking.
“Your Majesty?” my dad finally intoned, holding out an essay.
“She says that she’d like to speak with Carter,” said my mom. “And that she couldn’t do it over the phone because she doesn’t trust technology and she needs to see his face.”
How had my mom become the queen’s mouthpiece?
“Mr. Ogden,” said the queen.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” said my dad, wary but elated.
“The younger Mr. Ogden. There are two grave matters which I must discuss. The first is your complete and utter lack of even the most meager social decency in never thanking me for my hospitality.”
“You didn’t write a note?” my mom asked me.
“Or send a small gift?” said Miriam. “Some scented hand lotion or a fun oven mitt?”
“Nothing?” said Abby, in disbelief.
“Dude,” said Dane.
“I apologize on his behalf,” my mom told the queen. “That isn’t how he was raised. But once they’re out of the house . . .”
“You’re like a rabid animal,” Miriam all but spat at me.
“I understand,” said the queen. “And I never blame the parents. And secondly, I must address the matter of your relationship with my grandson.”
“But first,” said Miriam. “I need to say something.”
“I need to say something” will be carved on Miriam’s tombstone, along with, “And that’s only my opinion, but it’s the truth.”
“We’ve never met before,” Miriam told Queen Catherine, “but I feel like I know you.”
Miriam was standing beside the queen, telling the room, “Look at us, it’s like I have a twin.”
She was about to put her arm around the queen but decided, maybe not yet.
“And you are?” asked the queen.
“Miriam Yansky. You may know me from that TV ad, from years ago. I was coming out of a Broadway theater where I’d just seen this big musical, and they videotaped me saying, ‘I don’t care what anyone says, I enjoyed it.’ That ad ran for years, on all the Long Island cable channels.”
“And your relationship to Mr. Ogden?”
“I’m his great-aunt, who only wants what’s best for him. Sometimes I call myself his greatest aunt, but I’m not sure you have a sense of humor.”
“None. But I also want only the best for my grandson. Which is why I’m here. Mr. Ogden, when you departed, under a cloud of no small horror, I assumed that Edgar would breathe an enormous sigh of relief at his liberation from certain tragedy. I know I did. But Edgar, it seems, has become entirely incapacitated.”
I was still reeling from Queen Catherine being here, holding a handbag that Miriam was about to stroke to determine if it was real leather.
“He’s—incapacitated?” I said.
“He eats nothing. He sleeps much of the day. He attempts to exercise yet returns within minutes. Our family has, of course, provided wise counsel and a list of rehabilitative activities, all of which he’s refused
. This has continued for months. Yesterday I called him into my office and had him stand before me. I informed him, ‘You are a Crown Prince, not some whimpering, lovesick schoolboy. You formed an unfortunate emotional attachment, and you paid the price. But this has caused a neglect of your duties. I’m offering a choice: dispense with this endless unproductive mooning at once, or I shall dispatch you on a six-month goodwill tour of the arctic circle.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, and I’m quoting him directly . . .”
The queen paused, genuinely upset. We all leaned toward her.
“He said, ‘Don’t worry about me, Nana. I’m so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. And I quit.’”
The room grew even more gaspingly attentive.
“Oh my God,” said Abby.
“Whoa,” said Dane.
“What did he mean by ‘I quit’?” I asked.
“He intends to abdicate. He said that his behavior, during his time with you, was erratic, highly sexualized and out of control, and that such an unstable person has no business ever assuming the throne. He said that he was our nation’s worst possible option and that it was absolutely necessary to spare our beloved country such a dismal fate. So he intends to abdicate in favour of his brother, Gerald.”
I had an incredible yearning for Edgar, and heartache for what he was going through. Abandoning his responsibilities was a last resort for Edgar; he must be in the darkest and most hopeless place.
I had a second, meaner thought: Gerald and Maureen were getting what they wanted. They hadn’t plotted this, but they were ambitious, and I could picture them consoling Edgar, maybe over tea and scones at their estate, while sadly conceding that abdication was the only way out.
“Mr. Ogden?”
“I . . . Your Majesty, I’m so sorry, and I know this doesn’t matter, but I feel terrible, and I wish I’d never met Edgar, so he wouldn’t have to be so despondent.”
