Playing the Palace

by Paul Rudnick

  “Many people, perhaps an entire nation, ardently wish that you’d never met Edgar. But I’m not among them. I believe that you and Edgar shared a great depth of affection. And for your brief time together, I’d never witnessed him so happy. He was transformed. And I can’t dismiss or deny that. And that’s why I’ve come here and imposed on your family’s goodwill.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” my mom assured her.

  “And I have so many questions about the Tudors,” said my dad.

  “I love your hat,” said Abby.

  “Sit,” said Miriam. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

  “But Your Majesty, what would you like me to do?” I begged. I was shocked that she’d said such kind and supportive words about my effect on her grandson. “I’ve tried contacting Edgar, but he never responds. And sometimes I’m still angry at him for not believing me and for not trying harder to work things out. And I’m not sure we can ever be together, or if that’s even a good idea, but I’d do anything to help him, so please, tell me how I can.”

  “Mr. Ogden, you’ve already done irreparable damage—to England, and to my grandson. And I have no idea what you should do to change Edgar’s mind, so he may serve his country and attain some measure of happiness. I’m at a loss, and that’s why I’ve come here. There’s so much at stake. Everything, in point of fact. And it’s entirely up to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Edgar intends to address the Commonwealth this coming Saturday to announce his irrevocable decision.”

  She was diabolical. She’d dumped everything on me: Edgar’s despair and his country’s self-image and probably climate change, while we were at it. I’d become one of those renegade astronauts in a summer blockbuster, summoned to the White House for a suicide mission to rescue the planet from an oncoming meteor. What was I supposed to do, cock my head, gnaw on a cigar, leave my Montana trailer and say, “Yes ma’am”?

  Abby caught my eye, aggressively tipping her head toward the queen, indicating, “Are you listening, Carter?”

  As Her Majesty thanked my parents and turned to leave, Miriam surreptitiously opened the queen’s purse and deposited a dinner roll wrapped in a napkin. As the queen exited, followed by the security team, Miriam explained to the rest of us, “For the plane.”

  A second later, Ian popped his head back into the room and told me, “She means it, mate. We could use your help.”

  CHAPTER 27

  As I paused in the doorway to St. Patrick’s, I thought, I am the Judeo-Christian ethic, in one person. After Queen Catherine left, our Thanksgiving had become a raucous back-and-forth on What Does Carter Owe Prince Edgar, Was The Queen’s Demand About Love Or International Diplomacy, and What Should Carter Do And What Should He Wear While He’s Doing It. And while I appreciated my family’s outpouring of concern, I had to be alone.

  So the next morning, after taking the train back to the city, here I am. The cathedral wasn’t overpopulated, but I knew the pre-Christmas crowds would soon be kicking in.

  I took a seat near the back, inhaled the lingering incense and thought: Edgar.

  Did I still love him?

  Yes. Or at least I’d know for sure, if I saw him again.

  Was that enough?

  Enough for what? To argue or coax or berate him out of ruining his life? Or, if he wanted to abdicate, should I respect his decision? He was conflicted over how royals could contribute to a greater good, so maybe bowing out and forging another route was the right idea. Or was that bullshit, because I knew he’d be an incredible king, and not just because he was gay, although that was a fabulous dividend, but because he was a compassionate and forward-thinking man who could make a difference?

  Did I have any place in his life?

  I’d already destroyed him, for reasons we’d dispute, and he wasn’t speaking to me. If I could somehow reach him, and advise him, what would I say? “The guy you think cheated on you says to have faith”? “Listen to your gold-digging American slut”?

  Was I a gold digger? What if Edgar was, say, a barista or a bank teller, or a guy I’d met online or at the gym? Would I still be devoted, or was I more in love with his money and celebrity and with some imagined, photoshopped Instagram story of myself by his side, performing a gracious, trademark royal wave to our fans behind the barricades before breezing into the hottest restaurant for a cozy dinner with a pop star and her Oscar-winning current husband to chat about everyone’s charitable foundations?

  No. When I thought about Edgar, he was never hobnobbing at the Met Ball or being applauded at a summit. He was either in my arms or sitting across from me at IHOP, delightedly torn between ordering the cinnamon raisin pancakes or the chocolate chip with extra whipped cream. And I was telling him we could have both.

  Was I still angry that Edgar hadn’t listened to my side of the Callum situation, or trusted me, especially in front of pretty much everyone on Earth?

  Yes. And he was every bit as stubborn and pigheaded as me, only because he was a prince, I was expecting him to do better, to take the high road, to be more royally magnanimous. To do all the heavy lifting.

  What did I want most, in my heart of hearts, as my St. Patrick’s truth?

  I wanted Edgar to make the first move, to apologize, or at least text me. No, that was what I wanted in my snittiest, smallest, pettiest brain. In my best sense of myself I wanted—Edgar. And because of that, I wanted him to be happy. And I wanted his happiness and our love to become the same thing.

  How could I make that happen?

  Should I max out my Amex, jump on a plane, run to the palace and bang on the doors, yowling Edgar’s name as Scotland Yard dragged me away?

  Why was being in love so impossible? Was it worth it? Even if by some extreme–long shot, never-gonna-happen, Abby-inspired chance I could corral Edgar and talk him out of abdicating, and we got back together, how could I be sure that, especially knowing me, I wouldn’t fuck everything up all over again?

  That was when my phone went off, and a woman seated in front of me turned around and glared.

  So I left the cathedral and sat on the steps outside. James had sent me a video, which I noticed he’d also forwarded to Edgar.

  CHAPTER 28

  James had trouble framing himself in the camera, muttering curses as he finally centered the image and said, “Is this right? Can I be seen? Is this damn thing working?”

  He was in what was most likely his apartment at the palace; behind him I saw a frighteningly well-made bed and a small oil portrait on a plain white wall.

  “Gentlemen,” he began. “And already I’m being far too kind. I have something to say to both of you sniveling brats.”

  He peered into the camera, gave up worrying about it and went on.

  “I’m quite a bit older than both of you. In fact, I’m older than much of the solar system. But forty-seven years ago, I was hired as a footman to His Highness’s grandfather. I was exceedingly thankful for the job, and then, as now, I revered the royal family. Because they were disciplined, they were well-dressed and they persevered.

  “But I was a lad, and during my half day of freedom each week, along with the rare evening off, I sought companionship. Life was quite different then, and there were laws against sodomy and what was called ‘gross indecency.’ I didn’t care, or shall we say, my body and my heart felt otherwise. I learned, from household employees, of meeting spots, of parks and lavatories and pubs hidden behind other pubs, where dancing was rumored to occur. And one afternoon, in a far corner, I met a man my own age, named Albert—it wasn’t until our third encounter, at his tiny flat, that we shared our surnames. Albert Cradham was employed as a clerk on Savile Row. He was handsome, or at least I believed him to be—dark-haired, dark-eyed and impudent. He would tease me about working at the palace, and call me Your Lordship and worse.

  “We found ourselves, much to our surpris
e, falling madly in love. At that time, not only was this illegal, but unimaginable—we had no examples. No LGBTQ princes, no associate event consorts.

  “I spent every spare moment with Albert, at his flat and strolling through the city, careful to be taken for brothers, or mere acquaintances. But Albert wanted more—he said that we were bonded, and should celebrate our union, such as it was. I was fearful, but agreed, if the occasion could be kept entirely discreet.

  “We invited friends from that special pub, and a few fellows from Albert’s shop. We had music and a ham and even a clutch of balloons and streamers. There was champagne, which I’ll confess to you I’d thieved from the palace cellar. Albert and I were dancing, holding each other close, when the police burst in. Someone, to this day I have no idea who, had reported an indecent gathering, and everyone was arrested, and we were pressured to provide names of additional inverts.

  “I was consumed with fear and shame. My supervisor from the palace was alerted, bail was met and I was brought before your grandfather. He wasn’t a cruel man, not really; he was simply ignorant, and of his era. He told me the Crown would intervene for my freedom. I begged for Albert to be included in this mercy, and released, but your grandfather refused. He said the offer pertained to me alone, with a condition: that I never see Albert, or any other man of his sort, ever again.

  “I had a choice. Albert did not. I was the sole support of my embittered mother and drunken father, and I was desperate that they know nothing of my plight. I’m ashamed to say I agreed to the contract. Albert served, from what I know, two years in jail, and I never saw him again. I never tried to; not only was any such endeavour forbidden, but I assumed I was rightfully despised. I’d loved Albert and abandoned him, which was my real crime. I’d saved myself. Which was my punishment.

  “The palace became my only life, and when His Highness was born, and I was assigned to assist in his upbringing, I was gratified. Edgar, your parents were among the finest people I’ve known, and they welcomed my participation. And when they perished so unthinkably young, I knew that your care had become more essential than ever.

  “And of course, I’ve taken only the greatest pride in watching you mature into a thoughtful and accomplished young man, worthy of your parentage. And when it struck me that you were . . .”

  He paused and smiled.

  “That you were like me, I was secretly quite pleased. And when you chose to live openly, I was riddled with doubt, yet wanted to cheer. But I couldn’t, for one reason: I didn’t deserve to. Not after my treatment of Albert. Whom I think of to this day. Every day.”

  He gestured to the oil portrait, which was of an impish-looking young guy with a mustache.

  “When the few visitors to my room have asked why I’ve saved this picture, I’ve told them he’s a distant but cherished cousin. Edgar, I believe that is what I’ve told you. Until today, I was too ashamed and too heartsick to admit the truth.”

  He had tears in his eyes, but collected himself.

  “I’d almost had what you, both of you, are about to discard so easily, due to a childish spat. I’m asking you, not for myself, but for Albert, and for the countless men and women who’ve been denied your opportunities, or been punished for them—let love, and not pride or position, be your only guide. Don’t abandon each other. Or I will wring your vile little necks.”

  Abby’s car was already double-parking in front of the cathedral as she leaned out the window, asking, “Need a lift?” As always, she knew where I’d be, and where I had to go, even if it meant racing through the yellow lights.

  CHAPTER 29

  As Abby kept the motor running outside my building, I bolted upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Louise had my backpack waiting, and Adam had dug up my passport. I had a reservation on a flight leaving with just enough time to get to the airport and make it to the gate.

  “This is so romantic!” said Adam. “When you’re running through the airport, jump over stuff!”

  “Go,” said Louise, holding the front door open. “But spray paint something about the revolution on the front of the palace.”

  “Am I out of my mind?”

  “GO!”

  At the last second I dashed back into my bedroom and took the framed photo of Ruth Ginsburg off the wall, as she told me, “I can’t wait to see London!”

  As Abby exceeded the speed limit to JFK, she asked, “Do you have a plan?”

  “No. But I think James is going to be very helpful. I’m going to find Edgar and take it from there.”

  “Oh, Carter. Should I come with you?”

  “Thank you, but no. This is on me. But I’ll stay in touch.”

  “And once you’ve fixed everything, tell Queen Catherine you want a knighthood. Or like, a manor house. Where I’ll have my own room. Rooms. And I have to tell you something. When we were kids and I got sick, I felt so bad, because I didn’t want to die, but even more because I had to be around to watch you grow up. So I promised God that if I got better, I’d become a beautiful surgeon.”

  I almost asked her if while she was praying, she’d used that exact phrase, but of course she had.

  “And I also promised that I’d look out for you, for obvious reasons.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because you’d brought your GI Joe doll to the hospital, and when I asked why, you said so he could meet a cute doctor. Which I totally agreed with, but I also thought, ‘Carter is going to need dating tips.’ So here goes . . .”

  She pulled up in front of the terminal, kissed me and said, “Go get your prince.”

  Adam had printed out my boarding pass, and I scrambled to the gate with seconds to spare, joining the latecomers. I made it onto the plane, shoved my backpack into the overhead and began pitching my body forward to force the takeoff to go faster. I’d texted James, who’d be meeting me at Heathrow, and who was devising a way to ambush Edgar. If everything clicked, I’d land in London with at most an hour before Edgar’s live abdication speech. I could use the flight to outline exactly what I’d say to stop him. I wasn’t above begging or threatening to shave my head or promising to create an ad campaign with every sort of LGBTQ person wearing a crown and saying, “I am Prince Edgar.” After watching James’s video, I’d do whatever it took.

  The plane taxied toward the runway. We were third in line. I hated the first two planes but forgave them. I craved only the very best karma.

  We rolled to a halt. There was a problem with the landing gear. A problem that the pilot, over the PA system, said could be fixed very rapidly by the ground crew. I pressed my face to the window, debating if I should lead the other passengers in chanting, “COME ON!!!”

  The crew drove beneath the plane in a jeep-like vehicle. We waited.

  It would be at most twenty more minutes.

  We waited.

  There was another piece of equipment, which was being rushed over.

  We waited.

  I wasn’t the only person asking a flight attendant if I could get off the plane and search for another flight. I couldn’t.

  We waited. It would only take another half an hour.

  We waited.

  The flight was canceled. The pilot said the airline was sorry.

  We waited for a gate to become available.

  We waited.

  I used my phone to feverishly check if there were any flights on any airlines leaving for Heathrow.

  There was one. It was overbooked. Did I want to be placed on standby for a possible business seat? I did.

  Once passengers were finally permitted to leave the plane I beelined to the other gate, referencing every Olympic gold medalist and prison escapee. My shirt was sticking to my heaving chest and my knees were buckling, but I could collapse once I was on board.

  I waited as everyone went through.

  The seat had already been taken.

>   I pleaded to stand or kneel or ride in a pet carrier.

  There were no other flights for at least eight hours.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER 30

  By the time I got back to the apartment, by subway, Adam and Louise had the place fully stocked with microwave popcorn, Twizzlers and sympathy.

  “That’s it,” I told them, dropping my backpack on the floor. “I tried, but not hard enough.”

  “You didn’t break the plane,” said Adam.

  “And if you keep blaming yourself for everything, we’re not giving you any popcorn,” added Louise, who hugged me, which is something she never does; she once told me that “Hugs are what idiots do instead of voting.”

  I tried every conceivable method of contacting Edgar, but my texts and calls and emails went unanswered. He was resolute about not dealing with me. I had one number for James, but it went to a voice mail with the recording, “You have reached James Claverack with your concerns. Good luck, dear.”

  I had no means of getting through to the security team, and I was in the strange position of cursing myself for not having the Queen of England’s personal email.

  I lay on my bed and asked Ruth Ginsburg, who I’d retrieved from my duffel bag, if there was anything else I could do, but she shook her head sadly, finally mentioning, “You could change your sheets.”

  I had two choices: drink or drug myself into some version of sleep, or stay up all night replaying everything that had happened since I met Edgar. Both of these were bad ideas, so instead I did what lovelorn people always do: I listened to sad love songs, everything from country-western vengeful breakups to Broadway power ballads to whispery female singers who liked the words “morning,” “hurt” and “rain.” None of this helped, because nothing ever would.

  Outside my door, DuShawn had joined Adam in softly harmonising on the score from The Book of Mormon to cheer me up, but they knew: even musical comedy has its limits.