The Melting Queen

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The Melting Queen Page 20

by Bruce Cinnamon


  “It was finally time for me to come home. I’m sorry that I abandoned you. But I had to get out of Edmonton for a while.”

  “Okay. That’s nice. But you’re too late. I’m not the Melting Queen anymore.”

  “Don’t say that,” she says. “Of course you are. And I’m here to help you. I just needed some time away, to recharge and to find myself again. And I’ll be honest,” she says, looking down at her hands. “I was scared.”

  “Alice was telling us how she just got back from Maui,” says René.

  “I needed to be in the sun for a while,” says Alice. “And I couldn’t stand the sight of another Edmonton face.”

  I shake my head to clear it. They’re all looking at me expectantly.

  “But I don’t understand,” I say. “Why are you here now? What do you want from me?”

  Alice looks around the room, her eyes lingering on Kaseema for a moment before she looks back at me.

  “I left the day that I Named you, River Runson. I went straight to the airport and got on a plane and didn’t look back. I was finished with it all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was finally free. Because I hated Birch and I hated ECHO and I hated every minute of being Melting Queen. I hated the Intrusions ripping me into pieces. I hated the groups constantly pestering me for my support. And the people. I hated the people most of all. How they came and demanded my time and told me their stories. How I could feel myself becoming a worse, weaker person after every encounter, taking on their problems and their little pieces of poison. No one should have to endure that. No one. Never again.”

  “Then why did you Name me? If you knew it was so terrible. Why did you Name me!?”

  My voice breaks. It’s a question that’s been haunting me for months. I didn’t realize how much it hurt that I’d never had the chance to ask it.

  “They gave me a list of five names to choose from,” says Alice Songhua. “They sang me songs about how great each one of these women would be for Edmonton. And I smiled and nodded, just like I’d learned to do all year. I asked to see the leaves from May Winter’s statue, but Birch said not to worry myself about all that. They’d already done all that work for me, and sorted out the cream of the crop for me to choose from.”

  Alice Songhua looks up at my executive assistant, whose tablet is forgotten in the crook of her arm. She’s hanging off Alice’s every word.

  “Kaseema helped me. She’s loyal to the Melting Queen, not to Birch or ECHO or anyone else. She brought them to me. I sifted through the thousands of leaves, ran them through the computer, waiting to see what the CIRCLE directory would spit out. I was going to find someone so terrible that they would end the whole thing. Or at least embarrass them beyond belief. But then I found you, River Runson. The directory listed your birthday as September 21st, 2018. I thought it was a glitch or something. But there was no other information, no height or weight or occupation or gender.”

  The 114th Melting Queen stares straight into my eyes.

  “I Named you because I thought you didn’t exist. I thought I’d be the end. The last Melting Queen. So no woman would have to suffer through it again.”

  Kaseema clears her throat.

  “You were unhappy all that time?” she asks Alice.

  “I’m sorry, Kaseema. I know you care about the Melting Queen. You practically are the Melting Queen. But you don’t know how it feels. Day after day. Week after week. It wears you down and breaks you.”

  “She’s right,” says Sander, then pinkens at the attention when we all look at him. “I’ve interviewed forty-three Melting Queens. Some of them are doing better than others, but all of them say pretty much the same thing. Being the Melting Queen drained them of something vital. They’ve never felt the same since they took off the crown. They’ve never been as energetic or as happy.”

  “But why was my name there at all?” I ask Alice. “I didn’t stick a leaf on the statue.”

  “I did,” says René. He smirks at me unapologetically. “Right after we met. Right after you named yourself.”

  “Why?” I ask, too tired to be angry.

  “Do you really have to ask that? Because I hoped you would be Named! I knew you’d be a great Melting Queen.”

  I look around at all of them, these friends and supporters and manipulators.

  “But I’m not a great Melting Queen. Odessa’s right. I never wanted this. I’m not suited for it like she is.”

  “If she wins then Birch wins,” says Alice. “And if Birch wins then it’ll just keep going, year after year, queen after queen. Edmonton will just keep eating them alive, chewing them up and spitting them out and forgetting about them the moment that everyone has a fresh new queen to use.”

  “But if I win, then what? Everyone hates me. I won’t accomplish anything. I can’t even build a little fountain for my friend.”

  “Good thing you don’t have to do it alone then.”

  Everyone’s eyes flick to the doorway. Clodagh Paskwamostos stands there in a rumpled sweater, finally out of her hibernation.

  I’m off the couch before I know it, wrapping my arms around her stiff awkward body just like Alice did to me a moment ago.

  “You’re back.”

  “I didn’t go anywhere,” she says. She gives me a terse hug, then lifts me away from her and sets me aside as if I’m a straw doll.

  “It’s impossible to sleep with all you out here shouting. You’re terrible guests. But I’m being a terrible host. Who wants tea?”

  Clodagh doesn’t even bother counting hands, just shuffles into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She emerges a moment later with a tray full of mismatched mugs and coasters.

  “I’m sorry,” she mutters as she sets them down. “I haven’t been my best.”

  “That’s okay,” I say.

  “No. It’s not. I’m not giving up on you. And neither are you.”

  “But Odessa’s better at this than me. She’s won already.”

  “So what? You’re the Melting Queen. She’s not. And you’ve got a fountain to build.”

  Clodagh’s speckled brown eyes are fixed on mine. I feel her quiet confidence in me. She still needs this. She still needs me to be strong. And not just her, all of them. Victoria and Isobel and Alice too. There’s still work to be done.

  “Kaseema?”

  I turn to my loyal advisor, the truest devotee of the Melting Queen.

  “Do you still have the number for Iris Zambezi?”

  {14}

  The beating heart of her proud city

  Whyte Avenue is a chaos of colour. A cracked-open kaleidoscope, spilling out its glorious gems into the world. Beads and feathers, glue and glitter, body paint and wigs explode in a rainbow collage. Music crashes up and down the street, various floats competing to drown each other out with their preferred diva.

  The sun beats down on the assembled floats, burning the plentiful expanses of bare skin. Parade organizers flit around like hummingbirds sipping the sap from exotic flowers, trying to get everything in place before we go prancing down the street.

  There are a hundred different floats, and I spot a dozen familiar faces. Candace Khan and all the other Lodgepole Party MLAs have a line of gleaming classic convertibles and several tons of candy to rain down on the people. The Conservative rump caucus has their own sad float—including my mother, whose requests to march with me were deftly deflected by Kaseema. There are representatives of all the organizations who came to the Melting Queen’s Picnic, from SPYGLASS in their sports gear to CURVED with their eco-justice banners to PAPRIKA, who are dressed as construction workers with Madonna cone-boobs made out of orange traffic pylons.

  And then there’s me, standing beside the flower-choked float which will lead the parade. I’m surrounded by my team, as well as Iris Zambezi and some of her deputies, the festival’s main organizers.

  “How many people do you think will come today?” I ask as Magpie puts some finishing touches on my dress with a solderin
g iron.

  “Estimates range from thirty to thirty-five thousand people,” says Kaseema, stepping neatly aside as sparks fly off my skirt and skitter over the street.

  It’s more supporters than I expected. At least some people have forgiven me for my eruption on Odessa. Or else they never bought her act in the first place.

  “How many of those are protestors?” asks Clodagh.

  Iris gives us a sober stare. She’s tall and regal in a beautiful purple gown.

  “There will always be protestors,” she says. “It wasn’t so long ago that there were more protesters than people in the parade. For those of us old enough to remember, it’s nothing new.”

  I give her what I hope is a brave, compatriotic nod. Iris was quick to anger, but also quick to forgive. As soon as Kaseema called, she agreed to slot me in, despite the protests of some of her lieutenants.

  In many ways I still feel like I’m not supposed to be here. Like I’m too queer to be the Melting Queen but not queer enough to be in this parade. Too trans to be a frat brother but not trans enough to call myself trans. I suppose that feeling will never go away, especially when I have people like Olechka Stepanchuk almost convincing me that what I am is an offensive parody.

  I cast my eyes around the busy street again. Despite the fact that almost everyone I know is here, there is one notable absence.

  “Have you seen Odessa? Is she here?”

  “Yes, she’s here,” says Iris. “We didn’t allow her or ECHO to march in the parade, but we can’t stop them from organizing their own side event. I think it would be best if you two stayed away from one another.”

  “I’m not going to fight her. Don’t worry.”

  Magpie shuts the valve on her gas canister and lifts her welder’s mask and grins up at me.

  “I think we’re all good,” she says, eyeing her handiwork with satisfaction. “Give us a spin and show it off.”

  I twirl around on the pavement and hear the leaves of my skirt clank against each other. Magpie didn’t have much time to design my outfit, but she came up with something brilliant at the last minute. Since I’m in a war for my title, she said, I might as well wear some armour. She showed me some sketches and now here I am standing in this contraption: hair wrapped in a high bun, my crown woven in, a tight green silk corset which leaves my shoulders bare. And hanging from my waist, a skirt made of metal—sheets of emerald green armour, glittering like a dragon’s scales, pocked with rivets. I’m also reclaiming the colour that Odessa stole from me—the superstructure of the dress supports a long pink cape.

  The skirt’s weight drags down on my hips, but the ensemble is so striking that I can bear the temporary discomfort. I look into the amused faces of Clodagh and Kaseema and Iris.

  “Flashy,” says Clodagh.

  “You’re a warrior,” says Magpie, clapping her hands. She gathers up her stuff.

  “Now I need to go put the finishing touches on myself,” she says, adjusting her bright red dress and straightening out the white infinity symbol which loops around her foam breasts. “Can’t keep my adoring audience waiting.”

  I lean down for a hug and a kiss on the cheek then she rushes off into the crowd. I catch the eye of a person with swirling Van Gogh stars painted all over their body and we smile and nod, admiring each other’s colourfulness.

  Beside Iris Zambezi stands Clodagh Paskwamostos, wearing an ultramarine blue pantsuit that she keeps readjusting on her large frame. Alice Songhua wears a blazing scarlet summer dress. Isobel Fraser is stooped over the handles of her motorized scooter, wearing an orange vest covered in various buttons. And Victoria Goulburn has a long canary yellow coat with a marigold in its lapel.

  I will not be the grand marshal of this parade. We will line up, all six of us, and lead this carnival procession together: Alice in red, Isobel in orange, Victoria in yellow, River in green, Clodagh in blue, and Iris in purple. A show of force from the true Melting Queens, who embodied the spirit of the city.

  “Are we ready to go?” I ask Iris.

  “On your signal,” she says.

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  I join hands with Clodagh to my left and Victoria to my right. The line of Melting Queens marches around the corner, hand-in-hand (or hand in electric scooter handle, in Isobel’s case) and we greet the cheering and jeering crowds. Confetti pours down from the rooftops. Speakers on the float behind us belt out a rousing pop anthem. The people in the crowd dance along and people from the group behind us bequeath them with Mardi Gras beads.

  I feel my back straighten, my shoulders open. I imagine the emerald on my crown sparkling in the sunlight. I allow myself to feel majestic, and I smile freely at the crowd. The cheers drown out the jeers as we five generations of Melting Queens lift our hands into the air.

  I lean my head towards Clodagh as we pass by her travel agency, which has since become a bubble tea shop.

  “I’m glad I met you,” I say. “I’m lucky that my bootlaces exploded where they did.”

  She blushes and shrugs her shoulders.

  “I’m glad I met you too.”

  I feel Victoria squeeze my hand and I look at her.

  “Look who it is,” she says, nodding her head at the sidewalk. At first I don’t know what she’s talking about, but then I see a reporter and a cameraperson interviewing Kastevoros Birch.

  “Let’s not let him spoil our day,” I say.

  I resist the urge to make a face at the camera as we pass by. Soon I’m distracted by the joy of the crowd, and all thoughts of Birch and ECHO and this stupid referendum leave my mind. All along the parade route, a miracle is happening. The protestors are being shoved to the back of the sidewalks, sidelined and ignored by the joyous celebrants. The Greens have prevailed, at least on this day. Everyone is smiling and dancing, waving and jumping and kissing. Proud and happy. Not afraid. Not ashamed.

  People scream and cheer and applaud when they see us coming, and the parade is slowed several times as we pause to take pictures with people—young gay couples and their adorable babies, drag queens who are far more glamorous and beautiful than any biological woman, a group of Muslim women in rainbow burqas.

  As the music crashes back off the buildings, I feel like I’m relaxing and enjoying myself for the first time in months. They might not all accept me, they might not be able to come out and show their support every day, but I’ve got an army in my corner.

  The parade weaves its way down Walterdale Hill, across the new bridge beside Café Fiume, and eventually spills out into Coronation Park. The party continues for the rest of the day and into the evening. From time to time I glance up at the Spring Throne, there on the hill, still showing no signs of life. It makes me uneasy for some reason, like a predator crouching in our midst that no one else can see. Kaseema suggests that I sit in my royal seat and receive the thousands of revellers, but instead I walk amongst the crowd, taking pictures and sharing hugs. The sun takes forever to sink below the horizon, one of those never-ending Edmonton evenings of high summer.

  After a full day of drinks and performances (Magpie and Mary and Cherry take the stage, dazzling the crowd as much as they did on Melting Day), I feel the need to get away from the crush of people. As night falls, I leave the party, telling Clodagh that I’ll meet them all back at her house.

  I walk down to the river’s edge, dip my fingers in the cool water. I take a deep breath, and say a silent promise to Clodagh that I will finish this fight and get her fountain built.

  “River?”

  He says the word uncertainly, testing its shape with his teeth and lips. I turn and see Brock Stark standing on the upper bank, rainbow streaks painted on his face and carnival beads hanging around his neck.

  “You came to Pride,” I say.

  “I wanted to support you,” he says. He comes down the bank, to the water’s edge.

  “Are you having fun?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s not what I thought it would be.”


  He takes off his sandal, dips his toes into the water.

  “I watched you on EdmonTonight,” he says after a moment.

  “Oh god. I’m sorry.”

  “For what? I thought you were really brave.”

  He takes off the other sandal and puts both feet in the water, leaving wet footprints on the silty sand. I look at our blurry reflections in the smooth water, mirror images of each other once again. We glance up at each other at the same moment.

  “All the Dixies have your back, by the way,” he says. “We’re all going to vote for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I wish you didn’t have to, but thank you.”

  He mushes his feet into the muddy riverbank, stirring up clouds of silt which billow through the water and cover up our reflections.

  “Do you think you could come for a movie night some time?” he asks. “All the guys miss having you around.”

  I meet his eye. He flashes me the crooked smile that I’ve seen a thousand times—his only asymmetric feature, which somehow only makes him more physically perfect. Even in my magnificent battlegown, I am still dowdy and derelict next to him. I can’t stop comparing myself to him, no matter how badly I want to.

  “I’m sorry Brock. I’m not quite ready for that yet.”

  “But you will be? Some day?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A couple of guys walk by on the path above us and Brock looks back at the party. He watches them go along the path, hand in hand, then turns back to me.

  “I understand how you feel, you know. Before I came out, there were so many days where I thought about doing what you did, just running away. But you accepted me, like I knew you would, and so did all the other brothers.”

  I sigh.

  “I’m not a brother, though. Our situations aren’t the same.”

  “Maybe not,” he admits. “But still, you shouldn’t’ve just ghosted me.”

  He fixes me with a stare and I see the intermingled anger and sadness on his face.

  “You hurt me,” he says. “After everything we’ve been through together, you didn’t trust that I would support you.”

 

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