"Down goes the wall
Down goes the card
After midnight dies
Is it so hard
To see the truth?
No need for lies
What we are is all we are
After midnight dies!"
- The Wild Party
Part of him is hoping he'll be able to slip in unnoticed. That he'll find Queenie asleep on the couch and be able to find space next to her to lay himself down. It's a heavy, sticky Manhattan night outside, the air tastes and warns of rain. As he trips through Queenie's front door he is greeted by moans coming from her bedroom far in the back. One set between gasps and growls and other irregularly, the kind a woman makes with her eyes screwed up tight. The door is slightly open, the hinges have never worked well, and through it he catches glimpses of Queenie locked in a kind of vertical wrestling match with her boyfriend Burrs. The walls shake periodically as one or the other tries to kick the door shut at every pause for breath.
Queenie, for her part, sounds almost bored by the proceedings, but Burrs is too deeply entrenched in the glory that is she to notice much of anything. He can see Queenie concentrating very hard on the ceiling, trying to take herself out of the moment when Burrs jams her hip into the ajar door, hard enough to bruise, and it gives, sending them both flying, half-clothed, across the studio. Queenie lands in a heap on the floor and shoves Burrs impatiently off her chest. She sees her friend by the door, his hand on the doorknob, and her smudged red lipstick spreads into a brilliant smile.
"Jackie!" she trills. Her laugh sounds like a wind chime. She registers none of the embarrassment most women would have expressed at having her best friend walk in on her having sex in the middle of her studio floor.
Jackie watches as Burrs, undeterred, grabs Queenie by the leg, trying to pull her back to him. Queenie, with an angry scoffing sound, kicks out and sends him reeling backwards, holding his face and swearing in Yiddish. Jackie blinks.
"I'll… wait outside," Jackie suggests, as Queenie stretches languidly. Burrs gives a kind of affirmative growl, but Queenie's smile grows ever more vindictive and she reaches up for him.
"Oh no, honey, that's okay. We're done."
Jackie takes her offered hand and kisses it, even as Burrs struggles to get back between her legs with one hand clutching his bleeding face.
"No- we're -not!" he hisses, still half on top of her. "Queenie!" he moans.
She spares him one look of utter disgust before letting Jackie pull her to her feet.
"Where the fuck is my bra?" she mutters, stepping over her seething boyfriend on the floor and turning on one heel. Her vivid bathrobe hangs limp on her powdered-white shoulders as she reaches for the lacy black chemise hanging on her doorknob, then turns back and begins a fierce hunt for the trail of her clothing across the apartment.
Jackie takes his leave before Burrs can come to completely, and sits on the steps to the apartment until Queenie emerges a minute later, rumpled but at least clothed. She smiles as she sinks down on her knees to kiss him.
"Hey, lover." Her chemise is sheer.
"Fortissima." He runs his hand through her hair. "Honey, where are your panties?"
Queenie catches the fabric of the chemise and pulls it down over her thighs.
"Don't know," she says breezily. "I'll get 'em later."
She perches on the concrete of the step, then swings her legs across his lap. With most women Jackie would have accepted the obvious invitation without a second thought. But Queenie is not most women. She flops backward on the paved step and closes her legendary, lavender-framed silver eyes. Jackie leans back too, against the door with the broken hinges, his body at a right angle to Queenie's.
It is an odd moment for each of them to seek peace. But their relationship is a series of odd moments like this, made significant by silence and closeness. Their shared smile hangs, suspended in the damp air, and then they feels the door rattle hard behind as Burrs kicks it, rhythmically, until Queenie pushes herself up onto her elbows.
"What?" she hisses, her claws out and her eyes flashing. Burrs just glares at her through the glass. The heat between them is palpable.
"Fuck off, Burrs. Go finish yourself, I think my underwear is still in there somewhere. I'm not sure where you threw it."
Jackie giggles as his mutinous face disappears, but his presence has roused Queenie to business.
"Wassamatter, lover?"
Jackie shrugs, leans forward over her leg and rubs it. Her slender arms come around his neck.
"Tell Queenie what's wrong," she croons. He just shrugs again.
"Nothing's wrong."
At which Queenie scoffs again, but gently. He feels her breath against his hair.
"I knew you'd still be up. As it was I might as well save you from a fate worse than death itself."
He jerks his head toward the door. Queenie's laugh is high-pitched and sharp. She nearly always laughs with her eyes closed.
"Then stay up with me. We'll go do something," Queenie tells him. "Lemme up a minute, so I can pry my underwear from his clutching fingers… I think there's a midnight show at the Virginia tonight…"
"It's already 2:30, Fortissima."
"Is it really?" Undeterred, Queenie swings the door open. "Hmmm. We'll have to make do with what we've got. And what we've got is money and booze and a great expanse of suitable alleyways. Cheap love beckons us forward into the night!"
She marches inside with a determination only Burrs would challenge. Then she twists halfway around.
"Jackie, honey, toss me those, would you?" Jackie picks up a pair of black stockings and underwear and throws them to Queenie, who catches them deftly and struggles to pull them up over her hips. Her red blouse is wedged halfway underneath the door to her bedroom. If she's going to be taking it on and off all night it doesn't matter, really, that she's worn it for her act for the last three days.
Burrs stands in the doorway, Queenie has to shove past him to get her money. Even leaning, as he is, against the doorframe, his shadow casts a threatening claustrophobia through the studio.
"Where you bringing her?" he demands.
The underscored threat in Burrs' casual tone, further stressed by the tense, unnatural stillness of his body, misses Jackie's ear as it flies over his head. Jackie goes to the table by the door, playing distractedly with the flame flickering above the melting orange candlestick. Burrs takes a few steps towards him.
"When are you bringing her back?"
"I'll have her home by dawn, father." He rolls his eyes, but still doesn't raise them entirely to Burrs'. The last word would have slipped by unnoticed and without question were he talking to anyone else. The smile hovering on Burrs' mouth is truly sickening. His hand is raised and the space between them seems to close, before:
"Jackie, you ready to go?"
Queenie is reapplying her lip liner, and Jackie takes it from her to keep his hands moving, though they shake a little as he helps her. Burrs unexcused hand hovers in the air for a few seconds, before he waves the two of them out the door with an ironic bow. He takes Queenie by the hand and kisses her hard, squeezing until her eyes close with the pain. She doesn't wince away, but it's close, like a battle of will. Burrs breaks away suddenly, slaps Jackie hard on the back. His smile understands without empathy. Jackie ushers his friend out the door.
The night beckons the two of them forward, into stranger's arms and gin-soaked oblivion. Ahead of them, a bleach-blonde shares a flask and a kiss and a laugh with a lover whose face is lost to the shadow. Queenie shines against the filth of the tenements and the sex. It's so easy to believe that she is happy. The sun will soon break the sinister, glimmering spell, and when she's back in Burrs' arms, maybe then it will hit her. But these arms and lips and this heat do not belong to Burrs, and do not possess her for more than an instant.
She and Jackie meet up periodically, and at half past six, he brings her to her street, her red blouse torn at the neck as she folds herself into his arms. She does not want to face what is inside. Not yet.
Jackie waits with her for a few minutes. He kisses her, just as the apartment door opens and a chilly voice issues one command.
"Get inside, Queenie."
Jackie doesn't immediately let go of her as she winces. The instinct is embedded in us to protect us from pain. Burrs' hand shoots out and clasps Queenie's neck. Her eyes are shadows of pain and slowly she forces her body to loosen and stands before him with hatred in those eyes. His hands moves to the neckline of her ripped blouse, he takes the fabric almost gently and examines, and in one motion twists it in his hand and bears his wife up the stairs to the apartment. Her clenched hand brushes her friend's as Burrs compels her through the door and hisses, "Wait in there."
He turns slowly on the spot; while his knuckles turn white on the doorknob he locks eyes with Jackie. That smile returns to his face as he hears Queenie's shaking breath behind the door, as he sees Jackie flinch at the sudden, scalding eye contact. Just as slowly, he descends the steps, again his barely controlled voice holds the threat of insane jealousy.
"What's the story with you and my Queenie?"
"There is no story." Jackie should know better than to turn his back. Slowly, Burrs pulls him back.
"Now, don't give me that, Jackie." His voice feigns teasing, as he does so, as he speaks to his wife's best friend the way he speaks to women.
"She's a beauty, isn't she? You know she is. You want her, Jackie? You fucking her? Don't tell me that, Jackie," he adds when he shows signs of turning to go. He doesn't look defiant or guilty. Burrs is satisfied for now, but as his hand leaves Jackie's arm the blow falls.
"She the only one in the city you can't get?"
Jackie finds himself blocking out Queenie's tears, and with them any reason to stay, with the numbing sounds of the roaring traffic.
Queenie's voice sings from his open doorway, holding back a scream. Jackie catches her as she falls onto his shoulder. She breathes him in before her eyes flutter open and her eyes register a timid smile.
"Lover, can you spare a hit?"
He's almost out of this shared poison, but as Queenie coils herself miserably around his waist he knows a moment of selflessness. He gathers her hair off her face as Queenie takes her fill, and she feels the tears recede as numbness sets in and she lays her head in his lap. Her hair is uncurled, hanging around her face. Her whole presence suggests incompleteness; there is something a little dirty or a little broken about every part of her. He sees the bruise on her neck.
Queenie's eyes are desperate. If they don't talk about it, in time the bruises will fade. He lets his hand drop. Soon they will be laughing. Queenie's arms slink up around his neck under his black coat.
"You're gonna take care of me, Jackie."
She says it like it is the only thing she can be certain of. His arms settle around her hips as Queenie eases him out of his coat and it rests on his elbows. He kisses her decisively.
"I'm gonna take care of you, Queenie."
It's what she needs to hear, though whatever else she needs from him, he can't give it to her. It's Queenie who is mother here, but it's Jackie who feels he's seen the world. He settles into his place against the uneasy pulse in her white, white, opposite the livid bruise she tried to cover with her hair, and he waits with her for darkness to fall across their world. Queenie maneuvers herself into her friend's lap. Her smile will shatter soon. This is the first time it hasn't worked for her. Queenie threads her fingers into his and lays her face in his hands. Somewhere nearby, the clock chimes six.
"Got any more?"
Jackie shakes his head against her lank hair, silent. It scares him to see her like this. He hears her laugh, then swear, then start to cry.
"Oh shit!" she moans. Jackie's arms tighten convulsively around Queenie's waist. If this has happened between them before, it's been Queenie who's held and kissed and known where to lead him so he will sleep.
"Queenie…" he says in a strangled and panicked moan.
Queenie leans back completely. They are fused as one body. She takes a deep breath and holds it until she can speak.
"Sorry you had to see that."
She's still crying, but the tears come silently now. She swipes at her face impatiently.
"Don't scare me like that." He breathes shaking breaths, closing his eyes against her neck.
"Tell me what you need…" and he trails off, having nothing to give her that would help now.
"I need…" Queenie dries her bitter tears with the sleeve of her dress. "I need to leave him, Jackie. That's all I need. Kate's been telling me for years. But I can't do that."
She laces her rehearsed, pitched laugh with something bitter. The two of them are bent almost double on the fraying carpet on a Saturday night. Jackie stirs a little.
"Burrs gonna come looking for you?"
Queenie gives a derisive snort.
"He passed out an hour ago. Even if he wakes up before noon tomorrow, he's got his vodka and his right hand. He won't miss me. And he won't come looking for me either."
Jackie nods when he sees there's nothing left to say. Queenie lays her face in his hands and lets out a dry, angry sob as if to say, 'This cannot be my life.' She reaches back into her friend's coat pocket, hoping against hope. Jackie takes her hand to stop her and brings her wrist up to his face. Slowly he lifts Queenie off the floor.
"Come with me."
The one time he will lead, and she will follow.
"Where we going?" she murmurs. He forces a laugh.
"Does it matter?" he brushes her hand against his lips. "Anywhere but here."
He hears her repeat 'Anywhere' behind him in a dreamy murmur.
"I'd like that." She whispers.
The woman who comes to his door the next day arrives with her hair freshly curled and her tinted mask of snow securely in place. Her eyes glitter with a set determination, and as she passes Jackie in the doorway she slips something into his pocket, letting her arm linger against him for a minute before she charges inside. He raises an eyebrow, then shrugs and shuts the door. Queenie turns sharply on her heel and claps her hands.
"Come to our place tonight, lover." She curves one hand at the back of his neck theatrically. "I've got a plan to tighten the bit on Burrs."
"Is that so?" He kisses her on the lips, humoring her, but handling her more gently than he might have, as though her abrupt return to par has made her fragile. Queenie pats his cheek and her face curves into a poisonous smile.
"It's been awhile since we've thrown a real party, hasn't it, Jackie? The last time must have been months ago… for the opening of that new Vaudeville house uptown?"
Jackie catches on with a little laugh of delight. "You, darling fortissima, are brilliant."
"Oh, and it only gets better from here. I wish I could take all the credit. It was Burrs' idea to begin with."
Jackie lets out an impressed whistle.
"He wouldn't hand over the keys to his liquor cabinet for just anything… what did you do to him?"
"Pulled a knife and threatened to rip his balls off. I feel quite liberated. God, now I'm shaking, feel my pulse, will you?" she offers her wrist to him, which he draws up against his face for a brief moment before he laughs again, in preparation for the night ahead.
"Just wait for Dolores to get there. She's always invited. Even when she's not invited, she's invited."
"A legend in her own mind." Queenie feigns a yawn, letting her chin drop to her chest. "But she'll do anything in her power to ruin Burrs. Though he's not far from the finish. Now all that's left to do is wait, and let the night run its course."
She wraps her arms around his neck and hooks one slender leg around his.
"So? Are you coming?"
"I suppose we'll have to wait and see, hmm?" He pats her cheek and turns her toward the door by her waist. "Go and make ready, and rest assured that your Jackie will not disappoint."
Queenie blows a kiss from her fingertips.
"We'll all be waiting for the life of the party."
"Stop flattering me, my darling. We all know there's no party without you. Now get out, and don't you dare tell Burrs I'm coming. I like to make an entrance."
"Oh, don't I know it." Queenie rolls her eyes dramatically at him from the street as he flutters a wave and the door swings shut behind her with a snap.
Queenie has brought money to hail a cab. She wants, just once, to have the power of that New York woman she's almost dreamed and strived to be. But when she tells the driver to take her to 4th and Broadway, the way the words taste in her mouth let her know she's not fooling anyone. There is a mug of acrid, lukewarm coffee on her night-table when she gets back.
This is a party that will have no real beginning and no real ending. Almost no one is really invited, but word travels fast underground. A series of exits and entrances. Queenie waits at her vanity with the cracked light bulbs for the clock to chime six. Burrs is tearing up a pile of newspapers in the studio with a pair of dull sewing scissors, looking for a headline with his name. Queenie watches herself in the dusty mirror, her face framed with the tarnished brass, for a long time before she starts to smooth out her hair and choose a pair of earrings. She starts to sing to a melody from her old act as she makes ready. Burrs comes in briefly, takes a rhinestone necklace from the dully glimmering tangle of jewelry and fastens it around her neck, and Queenie turns her eyes from the mirror. Her voice sounds brassy as she croons:
"You wake from the dream…"
Swinging one leg over the makeup table and closing her eyes…
"And begin the nightmare!"