The Queen and I (14 page)

“Call me Esther. After all, I’ve seen you naked.”

Jeffrey felt a sudden chill at the realization that, indeed, the ghost must have seen him do a great many things, things no one thinks about or that they are being watched, since arriving here in the house. He swallowed deeply at his embarrassment and continued, “How long have you been here, Esther?”

“That’s not what you want to ask me.”

“Oh? And what exactly do I want to ask you?”

“What I look like, you big silly.” There was playfulness in the way the ghost spoke that reminded Jeffrey of the parades in Greenwich Village and his late night study sessions with Yvonne. There was something that was familiar and distant at the same time, and it was intriguing to say the least.

“Now that you mention it, what do you look like? Why don’t you show yourself?”

A gust of wind blew past Jeffrey’s face, and he assumed it meant the ghost had just passed him. He watched the room carefully and saw nothing else move, but he was certain that whatever it was, it was still in the room, and it was moving around.

“Are you a ghost?” Jeffrey asked.

“Aren’t we the blunt one?” the ghost asked coyly. “We’ve only just met and you want me to give myself to you already? I like my men assertive, but not pushy, dear boy. If you want the
latke
, you’re going to have to peel the potato.”

“Can you tell me anything about yourself?”

“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Rothstein. I was here first. You want anything from me, you’re going to have to tell me about yourself. Why are
you
here?”

Jeffrey thought about what was happening to him at this very moment. He had done and seen some very odd things in his life, but he was actually having a conversation with a ghost, or whatever this thing was. He wanted to know more about it, but it clearly was the one holding all of the cards, and it was dictating the terms of the conversation.

“I came to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life for a little while.”

“Do you always start off new relationships by lying to the other person?”

“How was I lying?”

There was a pause and he could sense that the ghost was once again moving around the room, looking at Jeffrey closely and peering into his soul in a way that made him uncomfortable. It was as if it knew everything that it needed to know about Jeffrey, but was content to play this game with him to see how honest he would be.

“Any friendship has to be built on trust, and right now I’m having a problem trusting you.”

Jeffrey thought for a moment and decided that the ghost was right. No matter what the obvious differences were here, it was obviously a sentient being; it had feelings and wants, it had sensitivities that could be hurt, and it wanted the basic things that most of us wanted from others—the truth.

He realized what he needed to do was put aside all of his concerns about revealing too much about himself and to just do it. After all, who was the ghost going to tell? The same could be said for Jeffrey; who was he going to tell, Abby Tisch? He thought that very unlikely. No, his best bet was to be painfully honest with the ghost and hope that he received the same in return.

He proceeded to tell Esther everything about himself. From his modest beginnings as a boy in Brooklyn, to his writing his first play at the age of thirteen for his bar mitzvah, to his becoming the youngest man in history to win a Tony award, and eventually to the crisis that he now found himself in with the powerful Heinrich Schultz and the mysterious Mendel Fujikawa.

Esther listened quietly as he told her, or him, or whatever it was, how his life had been systematically destroyed by these two vindictive men, and that Jeffrey thought that his only way to get his revenge would be to write the best script to the greatest play the world had ever seen, and he would make Schultz the subject of it. Much in the way that Orson Wells had used
Citizen Kane
to exact a form of personal injury to the wealthy William Randolph Hearst, Jeffrey was going to do the same thing.

He finished telling his story and poured another glass of wine; the wine was one of the few things that had not been disturbed during Esther’s tirade. He listened in silence for a response, any response, and heard none. He thought maybe the ghost had left out of boredom. It would be just the poetic justice his life had been experiencing lately, when the air became very cold, and there was a dim greenish light that permeated everything.

Jeffrey suddenly felt very afraid and thought that he had somehow angered the ghost yet again. He braced himself for whatever retribution was coming his way, when it suddenly became very dark, and the only light in the room appeared to be emanating from the floor.

In front of him stood a woman of about six feet tall and around two hundred pounds. She was dressed in an old cancan outfit and her makeup was thrown together and cheap looking. Oddly enough, she emitted a scent not unlike that of cloves and she smiled broadly at Jeffrey.

She was also obviously a man.

“Nice to meet you, Jeffrey. My real name is Saul,” the ghost said. “When do we get started on the play?”

Chapter Twenty-Three: A Lady Reveals Nothing

Knowing that the ghost was, in fact, residing in the house and that he was not simply losing his mind was a comfort for Jeffrey, and he was actually excited at the prospect of working with and getting to know this marvel of a revelation.

Jeffrey thought about it and realized the significance of what he was doing at this very moment. He was the first person to ever conclusively prove that there was life after death. Whatever you wanted to call Saul, there was no getting around the fact that he was the spirit of a being who had once lived and breathed just like any one of us, and Jeffrey was not remiss to notice this.

Saul seemed very eager to do whatever Jeffrey wanted, and he was accommodating beyond any assistant that he had ever had. but that also brought up an issue that Jeffrey had to address, and that was the fact that Saul had appeared in drag. Did this mean that Saul preferred being referred to as Esther Feltcher, or was he comfortable being called Saul, even though he was presenting himself as a woman?

This was always a tricky conversation to have whenever one dealt with a drag queen, but fortunately Jeffrey had had a lot of experience working with the gay community, and Yvonne Dubois was one of the most famous drag queens around at the current time. The secret was always to approach the conversation as if it didn’t matter one way or the other, or if possible trick the drag queen into telling you which they preferred.

He watched as Saul walked from one room to the other carrying cleaning supplies to straighten up the mess that he had made. He had changed from the cancan outfit to a French maid’s uniform and was humming happily from
Les Misérables.

“Can I give you a hand, Mrs. Feltcher?” Jeffrey asked.

Saul waved him offand said, “I have it all under control, and please, call me Saul.”

Saul was not as demonstrative as the other drag queens Jeffrey had known over the years, and this was actually quite refreshing. Most of the time when dealing with other queens, he had had to walk on eggshells and beware of offending delicate sensitivities. With Saul, it appeared he was more man than lady and just really enjoyed dressing as a woman.

He wanted to speak to the ghost in the worst way, to carry on an intensive Q and A, but Saul seemed perfectly content to go about his work and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Jeffrey marveled at watching his houseguest. He had always thought of ghosts as being ethereal, floating beings who hovered in front of you menacingly to get you to cower at their mere presence so you would eventually succumb to their will, but Saul was different.

Saul walked from room to room on feet and legs that were no different than ours, he hummed when he was in a good mood, and he even occasionally smiled a warm, friendly grin at Jeffrey, as if to say he wanted to be in no other place in the world right then than in the cabin doing exactly what he was doing.

Jeffrey even marveled as Saul opened the front door and walked outside. He rushed to the window and watched as the ghost strolled to a patch of daffodils and picked some. He happily returned to the cabin and went right to the kitchen where he fetched a vase and placed the flowers in some water, returning with the vessel so that he could place it on the table Jeffrey was using as a workstation.

He turned to Jeffrey and winked, “A little color never hurt anyone.” He started walking back toward the kitchen and abruptly stopped and exclaimed, “Oy
gevalt
! You don’t have allergies, do you?”

Jeffrey, a little taken aback by the fact that the ghost was once again speaking to him, replied, “No, I’m good.”

“Thank you. Who knew? The last thing we need is you trying to write while blowing your nose.”

Jeffrey smiled as Saul disappeared into the kitchen again and yelled from behind the door, “I hope you like tuna fish. I’m a genius with tuna fish.”

“Tuna would be great.” Jeffrey was dumbfounded at what was happening here. Not only was Saul cleaning up the mess he had made, but he had picked flowers and was making lunch.

Saul poked his head through the door, not opening the door, but literally
poked
only his head through the kitchen door and said, “My tuna is the stuff of legend. Oy, the men I’ve held under my command from one bite.” He winked. “You know what they say; I bet you’ll
geshreit
from one bite.” He giggled and disappeared from view again.

Jeffrey looked around his cabin and was amazed at how quickly Saul had cleaned the mess, even the blown-out bulbs in the chandelier were not a problem for him; he simply levitated to eye level and replaced them, scolding Jeffrey to please not look up his dress while he was hovering.

Lunch was served, and Saul had seen to every little detail. He had lightly toasted the bread, put on some lettuce and tomato, even seasoned the tomato, and then poured Jeffrey a glass of fresh brewed iced tea that was also sweetened perfectly.

“I don’t know how those southerners drink that
fercoktehed
sweet tea. Oy, what a mess.” He walked slowly over to a chair across the room from Jeffrey and announced, “I have to take a few minutes to rest.” He exhaled heavily, which Jeffrey found interesting since the ghost obviously did not breathe and determined that it was for effect. “If I ever meet the misogynistic
mamzer
who invented heels, I’m going to make like a
mohel
on him. How’s the tuna?”

Jeffrey smiled and told him how delicious it was, and Saul responded, “A little secret my bubbe taught me when she was still alive. She was such a good cook. The secret is that I add celery seed.”

He stood up and opened the curtains to the back of the house to allow the sun in, and so they could take in the gorgeous view of the lake laid out before them. Saul paused and watched as sailboats passed and vacationing families rode jet skis. It was a wash of color and summer fun played out in front of them, and Saul asked, “How long do you think it will take until you start writing again?”

Jeffrey swallowed and answered, “I
have
started writing again.”

“Not that dreck that you’ve been wasting your time with, I meant writing the way you are capable of doing.”

Jeffrey did not appreciate the insult, but decided to let it go as he wanted to shift the conversation toward Saul and his past rather than Jeffrey and his future. There had to be a story here with the ghost, and he wanted to find out what it was. The only thing he knew about him so far was that he enjoyed wearing women’s clothing, was obviously gay, and sometimes went by the name Esther Feltcher.

“What brought you to the cabin?” Jeffrey asked.

Saul appeared to not hear the question and asked, “Have you seen any of the performances in town yet at their local theater?”

“Not yet, what about you?”

“They’re not bad; the little Foreman girl is quite good actually. You should talk to her.” Saul’s voice was now slightly distant and sad sounding.

“Were you a drama critic?”

Saul laughed and replied, “I could act my way around them without even trying. They’re amateurs;
I
was a professional.”

Jeffrey watched as Saul made a grand sweeping gesture with his arms and asked, “Were you in anything that I might have heard of or seen?”

The ghost turned to face him and answered, “My time ended long before yours began.” He walked toward Jeffrey and sat at the table with him, looking at the empty plate. “Would you like another sandwich?”

“No thank you, but it was delicious.”

“It’s been years since I’ve made one for anyone, even longer since I’ve tasted one. I developed allergies.” He got up and took the plate into the kitchen. Jeffrey wanted to ask personal questions, but felt if he moved too quickly he could upset his guest, and that was the last thing he wanted. The ghost had said something about his writing and seemed to be very interested in that, so he decided to keep that part of the conversation going.

“What was it about what I’ve been writing that you didn’t like?”

“It has no
chutzpah
. I’ve heard of your past stuff and know that you’re better than the
dreck you’ve been penning for the last couple of weeks. I could
pish
a better script in the snow.”

Saul had a very direct way of speaking that may have been off-putting to some, but Jeffrey found it quite refreshing. It had been years since anyone had dared to be so critical of anything that he did, the logic being that he was so much more talented than everyone else that he could work his way through any shortcomings in his work.

Jeffrey took a step toward the kitchen and heard the faintest sound of what appeared to be sobbing. He tried to actually manipulate the air around him, and stood perfectly still to get quieter so that he could hear clearer, but was only able to hear what sounded like sniffles. He slowly walked into the kitchen and saw Saul chopping onions. He watched as the ghost wiped his eyes and dumped a pile into a bowl he had thrown other vegetables in.

Jeffery was a bit confused, and Saul quickly noticed him. “I like to pretend when I work with certain food; it makes me feel like I’m still among the living.”

“You’re a very good actor.”

“You’re preaching to the rabbi, boobelah,” Saul answered happily. “I thought a nice breast of veal would be lovely for dinner.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a breast of veal.”

“You don’t. I need you to go to the store.”

Jeffrey wanted to desperately ask Saul questions about himself, but it was becoming obvious to him that Saul was not yet interested in sharing any personal information. He would have to bide his time and hope the ghost would eventually become chatty.
Maybe I can get him drunk,
he thought. He smiled at the notion and dismissed it as soon as he thought it since Saul did not eat or drink to Jeffrey’s knowledge.

He got dressed, gathered his keys, and took the shopping list Saul had prepared for him, including instructions on how to pick out a good piece of meat.

* * *

Abby Tisch watched as Jeffrey left the cabin, and she took pictures of him as he did so. The ghost had obviously made his presence known, of that she was certain. Flowers didn’t just uproot and levitate across thin air on their own, and what was that weird light and all the noise she had noticed earlier in the morning?

She had camped out in the woods away from the house in the cover of the surrounding foliage and watched carefully as Jeffrey did nothing but stay inside, doing nothing. The house, in fact, had been so silent that she was ready to give up on her little stakeout; then this morning happened.

She had been convinced for months, ever since Richard Kearney had walked into her bookstore, that there was something afoot at this place, and she began to realize it was something of a supernatural nature. The clues were all there.

She had been let in the house, and the first thing she noticed was the smell. There was an aroma much like that of apple pie, and the place was immaculately clean. Kearney was a heterosexual, so that made no sense at all; no straight man was that clean. The second thing that stood out to her was the manicured grounds around the house; this was not professionally done, by any means. This job was performed by someone who loved this house and wanted it to look pretty above everything else. And then there was the garbage.

One late evening, she had taken it upon herself to go through the trash while Kearney was out and found that every item in the trash had been meticulously placed there, every item had a place, and was in that place awaiting pick up. And they all thought
she
was crazy.

A straight man who loved the smell of apple pie, cleaned his house, and used up everything in every container before throwing it out? Of course there had to be a ghost there helping him. She knew what she was talking about.

But this morning, when she had seen that green light and heard the sounds of glass breaking, was when she knew something was wrong. It was one thing that this Rothstein fellow hadn’t spent much time among the town folks, it was a bit odd that he kept to himself, but for him to be so brash as to come to her store, read her bookmark, and not return any calls or reach out to her? She was convinced she wasn’t just dealing with a simple haunting, she was dealing with a full-on possession. The devil had come to Zion, and his name was Jeffrey David Rothstein.

She would have to check inside the house, but not when he was home. She would also have to bring her equipment with her; there was no way she was stepping one foot in there naked. Abby decided she would watch the place, be prepared, and pick her moment. Whatever it was that was occupying this house would be dealt with, and then it would be the new owner’s turn.

* * *

Saul prepared an amazing dinner, and Jeffrey washed it down with some very nice New York State wine. The two of them sat in the dining room and talked for hours, picking each other’s brains and making small talk about their favorite plays, their favorite actors, and who could forget, the best musical of all time.

The two of them agreed that it was
Fiddler on the Roof
. How could it not be? It had everything, after all. Jews, communists, oppression, and Saul was convinced that the chief of police was a
faggela.

They joked like two old friends who had not seen each other in years, finishing one another’s sentences, making smart-ass remarks at the other’s expense without being offended, and they both realized they thought Oprah had been sent by the devil to destroy Broadway and the gay community.

They laughed like school children at a sleepover and tossed ideas back and forth at each other about ways they would redo a famous celebrity if they had a genie in the bottle, and determined that the first thing they would do would be to give Rosie O’Donnell a pair of scissors so she could finish the job on herself, and they would help Whoopi Goldberg finally find love. Liza Minnelli came up in the conversation, but what could you really do to Liza? It would be like telling God to take a mulligan on Jesus.