The Lost Queen of Crocker County: A Novel

by Elizabeth Leiknes

  For a predictable moment, I am Jane Willow—the After Jane who is ruled by doubt and cynicism, who knows all of this malarkey is nonsense.

  And.

  Yet.

  Small stirrings of Before Jane awaken from somewhere I can’t quite place, and she says, Believe so. Just think it so, and Bliss will be all right.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Mr. Linart says. “Why does it matter? Why does this stupid little musical even matter right now?” He plops down onto the makeshift park bench courtesy of the fictional River City set. “You know why it matters? When you want something so badly, and you just know it’s sure to be a total cock-up, and you do it anyway. That’s why. And when you’re gutted, absolutely gutted over how cruel and unfair this life can be, but you keep going, you believe in the miracle of an impossible transformation. That’s why.”

  Mr. Linart takes a deep breath, for everyone.

  “Across those hills, Bliss sleeps. Dreams, maybe. But we need her to come back to us.”

  Then like a testament to doubt itself, Connor breaks in with a declaration that seems to represent the collective fear in the room. “She’s going to die.”

  It spreads like a cancer. Two other trombonists lower their heads, a little girl starts to cry, and Harold Hill, who has returned to being just teenager Josh, looks to Mr. Linart as the deflated room awaits his response.

  Mr. Linart nods, waits for several seconds, suspends the heaviness in the room while he buys some time. “Okay. You’re right. She might die. But none of us are getting out of here alive, ya know.” He points to himself. “I’m going to die.” He points to the little girl, the cutest member of River City’s townsfolk, who is already crying. “Even little Carrie’s going to die.” Carrie, now acutely aware of her mortality at the ripe age of five, turns her cry into a full-blown sob, and I start to question Mr. Linart’s motivational strategy.

  “But quitting is for tossers. Quitting is rubbish. We owe it to her to not bugger this up. We owe it to Bliss to have a little faith. So either we do this thing full monty, or we don’t do it at all.” For the first time in this diatribe, Mr. Linart tears up. “We want—we need—a shaman; we need a…” He then whispers miracle as if it’s too embarrassing to say out loud. “But I’ll settle for a first-rate, bloody con man.” He winds up now, unapologetic, totally off his trolley, his Union Jack flying high. “We are not a bunch of dodgy quitters. We are River City champions.” And then softer: “True City’s finest. We work hard, mates.”

  Work hard. Be nice. Mom is everywhere.

  “‘Believe so’ will save the bloody day.” Mr. Linart now stands, directing his people, guiding those who need to find their way. “Now, make it happen, lads and lassies!”

  And just like that, with the predictability of a midwestern thunderstorm on a humid, August afternoon, everyone gets to work.

  “Hey, help us out,” Mr. Linart hollers out at me as the crew take their spots on the stage. “We’re short one Marian Paroo. Please. Just a few lines.”

  I sit up, heart racing, unable to move as everyone now stares at me, their only audience.

  When I remain seated, he adds, “Just a few lines. Please. Come on. I could really use a bloody hand here.”

  I think hard, hoping it will save the day, but knowing it won’t. I get up anyway and walk to the stage. Mr. Linart takes my hand as I climb five steps to center stage. “Just so you know, I’m not an actor.” And I start to laugh, thinking about the lousy reviews I would get from myself. “I’m actually a—”

  “I know what you are, Janie.” Mr. Linart squeezes my hand, smiles, and winks at me. “Welcome home.”

  Someone whispers Corn Queen, but right now I am Marian Paroo, for Bliss, and Mr. Linart is feeding me my line.

  I read my line as Marian. Teenage Josh stands up a little straighter as Harold Hill, takes my hand, and stares into my eyes. It’s all about today.

  Josh needs no prompting, no script, and I realize at that very moment, neither do I. The giant room shrinks. The world outside disappears. Harold Hill and I, the two of us, exist in some other plane where people know things.

  It’s all about today. He stares so deep inside me, I lose myself in the smooth strength of it. Believe so. Just say it, and it shall be.

  Just like that.

  Just like that, truth emerges, revised, redefined. If you’re wrong, kid, make it right. But this time, right is not next door, sitting in a jail cell, following the letter of the law. The real right lies asleep in a hospital bed, waiting for someone to say the right words that will call her back. The real right will be much more difficult, calling upon a thing as heavy as a miracle, unmovable as one’s will.

  The real right involves a girl, temporarily lost, being found.

  “Thank you, Mr. Linart,” I say, but I am already down the stage steps heading toward the door. “And thank you, kids. You make River City…True City…proud!”

  “Wait, Janie! Your big scene is coming up!”

  It is. And I have to go. Out the door and past the police station door, toward the hills where she dreams.

  Cheerio.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RUN OPENING TITLES OVER:

  INT. SOMEWHERE—TODAY

  BLISS (V.O.)

  (dreamy)

  I don’t know where I am, but I know who I am. I am Bliss.

  FADE IN:

  Establishing Shot: Eighteen-year-old BLISS ANDERSON, in an ethereal state, floats in space, tries to figure out where she is. The borders of her world are fuzzy, cloud-like. She watches herself below, some in-between place.

  CUT TO:

  The earthly BLISS sits, waiting for her name to be called for something. She beams in a sunshine-yellow organza gown, a warm spot in a cold, colorless auditorium.

  BLISS

  (surprised)

  God, I look good. Really good. Not to sound totally into myself, but I look pretty. Like this is the biggest night of my life, maybe. That dress is epic! I definitely did not get that in True City.

  BLISS now settles into her body below…

  TIGHT ON:

  BLISS’s hand first touches her body, then her gown, and finally her hair pulled painfully tight in a fancy updo. BLISS proceeds to ask several rhetorical questions like it’s a well-practiced habit.

  BLISS

  (growing tired)

  Is this why my head hurts? Why am I so tired? Can’t I just take a little nap?

  WOMAN (O.S.)

  (urgently)

  Bliss, don’t fall asleep. Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.

  BLISS wants to obey the voice. She lets the familiarity of it wrap around her. She sniffs the air to take in a sudden, overwhelming scent of hollyhocks, then as if it were not strange at all, BLISS watches a live monarch butterfly land on her dress.

  A fluttering spot of orange and black hovers in a sea of yellow. She looks around for the origin of the voice, but when she can’t find it, she observes the people sitting in the auditorium seats near her. They are beautiful strangers.

  STRANGER

  Where are you from?

  BLISS

  Somewhere…with golden cornfields, red barns, and lots of twinkling stars in a sky as black as the soil.

  STRANGER

  Sounds lovely.

  BLISS

  Not really.

  Suddenly, like a dream interrupted, details about BLISS’s life come in flashes. As they float in, BLISS relays them to the STRANGER, who nods politely.

  BLISS

  (drifting)

  I’m eighteen. I’m going to be an actress. I have a boyfriend named Mitch. And I’m tired. So tired. My head feels like a bowling ball.

  STRANGER

  Why are you here?

  BLISS

  (confused)

  Not…sure, but
I think I’m on the verge of something amazing. Something. That will change everything.

  A SUITED MAN steps up to a podium. Award-show music plays and beams of light crisscross around the giant auditorium. He reads a list of names. Nominees. Finally, after several other names…

  MAN

  (excitedly)

  Bliss Anderson.

  The audience erupts into applause.

  STRANGER

  That’s you! Maybe you’re going to win!

  BLISS

  But I haven’t been chosen yet. Time will tell. Whatever “time” is.

  STRANGER

  (giggling)

  There is no time here.

  BLISS

  Yeah, I’m getting that.

  STRANGER

  Is this your final destination?

  BLISS

  I don’t think so. I think it’s something in between…in the middle. The Middle. That’s what I’ll call it. The Middle—like a red carpet, a gateway to somewhere else when you’re not sure which way to go. Right now…

  BLISS nods off.

  WOMAN (O.S.)

  Bliss! Open your eyes, Bliss. It’s. Not. Your. Time.

  BLISS looks up toward the voice, notices the auditorium has no ceiling. It is made up of wispy, cartoon clouds—the kind in a Maxfield Parrish painting, adorning the bluest sky she’s ever seen.

  BLISS

  Right now, I want to rest my eyes. I’m a lifetime of tired. Maybe I’ll sleep.

  Or maybe I’ll wake up. For now, waking up sounds like the hardest part.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lots of things that people do in life are irrational. Screaming at the sight of a tiny field mouse as it scurries by. Hiding behind one’s hands during a scary movie. Avoiding secrets from one’s past when they surface.

  To an outside observer, my plan to save this girl would be considered irrational. Beyond irrational. Even to me, it reeks of bizarre. In fact, I could easily offer an even harsher revision of the word irrational.

  Illogical.

  Illegal.

  That is to say, fucked-up crazy.

  But for me, there is no going back. Righting my wrong means bringing this girl back from wherever she’s gone, and I can trust nobody else with this task. Some things in life you have to do yourself. The gaffer can’t do it. The grip definitely can’t do it. This is a job for the director, the storyteller. Serious cinematic skills are required here; the lighting, the angles, but especially the words, need to be perfect. I alone can will it to be so.

  I go back to my motel room to check out. I’ve decided to give Mother what she always wanted, eighteen years too late. The remainder of my stay will be at my parents’ home. Maybe it will ground me.

  I pack the few things I have and force myself to speed-dial Sid.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey!” Sid’s voice, warm and concerned, pours over me. “How are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m so sorry, Sid.”

  “You’re practicing your manners. Good for you.” He pauses. “But sorry for what?

  “Something happened.”

  “Jane, I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been—”

  “No, Sid. Something else. Something I have to fix.” The weight of my own voice makes me stop for a moment and take a deep breath. “I can’t come back. Not yet.”

  “Okay…”

  I know sheer panic hides behind his patient response. This plot twist is not making the story better. In three days, he will need something to print. He’ll need words about films that are three-thousand miles away from me.

  “I can’t.… I just can’t come back yet.” I pause again, try out another idea. “There are other film critics in Los Angeles, you know. Kate or John could fill in until I’m back.”

  His silence cuts through me.

  He sighs. “They’re not you, Jane. People read your column because of you. You are Cinegirl.”

  Silence.

  “You have an uncanny way of seeing through the bullshit and politics of film. Even the most jaded in Hollywood know that.” His voice softens. “You make pretentious people love unpretentious films, and you make the common man love the avant-garde.”

  Silence.

  “How you write…your common sense…is what made your parents the proudest, you know.”

  I do. But Sid is wrong. They’re all wrong. I’m a fraud.

  “Sid?” I try not to sound as vulnerable as I feel. “It’s this place. It’s got me totally confused.” I want to ask how a person is supposed to know where she belongs.

  “Jane? I’m getting worried now. You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “That’s the thing! Who the hell am I, Sid?” I throw a pair of shoes into my bag and slump onto the bed. “I don’t think…” I shake my head for no one to see. “I don’t think I’m a very good person.”

  I try to think of something—anything—that I’ve done since I’ve left home that mattered. Nothing. Nothing that really mattered. I wasn’t a good daughter. I wasn’t a good anything. And now I don’t have anyone in my life to care about, anybody who needs me.

  I went straight from film school into writing about film, and I can’t think of one thing I have to show for the past eighteen years besides words on paper. I can’t think of a thing I’ve done that can’t easily be erased. The idea bleeds into me like ink on paper. I could be erased without consequence.

  I don’t want Sid to have the chance to comment on my lack of humanity. “Look, I have to go, Sid. I’ll figure something out. I’ll send you something.”

  “Jane…”

  I hang up, drive down Main Street, out of town past Jack and Mary, and finally make my way home.

  • • •

  After unpacking, settling into my childhood room, and eating another square of Mom’s corn casserole, I park the Aston Martin in the garage, its birthplace, and cover it with a tarp. I don’t have the courage to look too closely. When the dented front bumper disappears under the canvas disguise, my stomach contracts at the sight of it. I hear the thump, feel it, and want to vomit. I feel a respite from the guilt when I imagine myself in an orange jumpsuit, jailed for my crime, after this is all over. After I save her.

  But for now, I will need to drive my parents’ old Ford pickup truck and make a plan. How am I going to get into this girl’s hospital room? How am I going to keep from getting recognized in a place that seems to know me better than I know myself?

  As if it’s 1990, I sit down on the little stool in front of my vanity and talk to the shrine before me. She’s still here—between my stand-up swivel mirror, my worn Rubik’s cube, and my purple, BeDazzled jewelry box—the late, great, one and only Pauline Kael.

  I sigh. “Where do I begin, Ms. Kael? All I’ve ever wanted was to become you, which I could never do, but I’ve come as close as I can. I’ve recently pissed off the hottest director in Hollywood by denouncing his manifesto on film about world hunger. And…nobody likes me. And…yesterday I buried both of my parents. And that’s not even the worst of it.”

  She looks up at me from her black-and-white glossy photo, speaks confidently in her signature second-person voice. If you can’t make fun of bad movies on serious subjects, what’s the point?

  “I know, right?” I say back, like I’m talking to an old friend.

  And being liked is overrated. Lots of people hated me. I was fine with it.

  When she says this, the tone of her voice betrays her, and I wonder if she’s being totally honest. But of course she is, she’s Pauline Kael.

  About your parents…people die. That’s it. End of story.

  I lower my head. “It is what it is. No encore.”

  Nope. So live your life. Every day. I think I see her blink her steely eyes, full of wisdom. So what’s the worst of it?

 
“I did something…” I can’t even find an adjective horrible enough. “I need to fix it, but I don’t know how.”

  She lets out an impatient sigh. Well, where there is a will, there is a way, Ms. Kael assures me and lifts her chin up ever so slightly like it’s an invitation to sack up. If there is a chance in a million that you can do something, anything, just do it. Pry the door open, or, if need be, wedge your foot in that door and keep it open.

  “But what if being me won’t work?”

  Then be someone else. She adjusts her writerly scarf. Look to what you know. For you, for us, the answers are all on film. You know this.

  “But how do I—”

  You’ll figure it out. Look to the giant movie reel in the sky. I can tell she’s finished with me, and the animated Pauline Kael now starts to flatten back into her less glossy, lifeless head shot, but not before she gives me one more urgent plea. Now, go.

  I plop down on my little-girl bed and look out the window. What movie reel in the sky? I am seriously losing it. Leaving the scene of an accident. Talking to dead idols. Making plans to bring a coma patient back to life.

  Then I see it. A puffy cumulus cloud in the shape of a circle. I imagine another circle, followed by a number seven. 007. Right there in the clouds. My gaze moves from the sky to my bookshelf filled with twelve Ian Fleming novels, and I laugh, thinking of my dad doing Ernst Stavro Blofeld’s German accent, telling Mr. Bond that he only lives twice.

  What would Dad tell me to do? If you’re wrong, kid, make it right.

  He’d tell me to do what James Bond does. Improvise.

  That’s it.

  Flashes of James Bond in various disguises—a Zorin Industries blouson in A View to a Kill, a keffiyeh and tunic in The Spy Who Loved Me, and sadly, the most pathetic Bond disguise ever, a clown in Octopussy—remind me what I need to do to get the job done.

  Chapter Seventeen

  To my surprise, it only takes me fifteen minutes to become someone else. Perhaps I’m so disgusted with myself that shedding the old me comes with great ease. Or maybe transformation isn’t as difficult as I thought. Either way, after going to the attic and digging through costumes from my high school drama club productions—Rizzo from Grease, Liesl from Sound of Music, Nellie from South Pacific—I settle on Cleopatra’s wig.