Author's Note: This is a bit of a story I'm writing, from the POV of a
grown-up Susan, and how her past comes to haunt her in strange ways. It's
an A/U, and I'm not trying to write in the style of C.S. Lewis. God knows
if he would even approve of it; but something tells me his wife would.
I promise to finish it, but please be patient; it will probably take me a while. Of course, reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy!
***
The Subway
New York, 1957
"There you are, Susan honey. Say, you're all dolled up!" Florence Jenkins, arranged on the settee, crossed her legs and finished with one big swallow her scotch on the rocks. "Gonna paint the town with that Jew boyfriend of yours?"
"As a matter of fact, I was." Quickly and precisely, Susan Pevensie knotted her scarf under her chin, trying to hide her growing fury. "And please don't refer to him as my 'Jew boyfriend'. his name is Alan."
"Yeah. you told me his name was Al. Al Hymie or somethin'." She hiccuped loudly.
"No." She gave her new roommate and fellow secretary a piercing glare. "It's Alan Chaimowitz!"
Florence shrugged and giggled. "Have it your way, honey. I'm sure a classy English dame like you knows how to pick out the best men. Where's he takin' you out tonght? The Stork Club? The El Morocco? How 'bout the Rainbow Room?"
"No." Susan picked up her gloves and shoved her hands into them. "We were thinking of finding some bistro down in Greenwich Village. We were going to meet at Washington Square."
"Gee, that's swell, kid. Sounds so bohemian! Didn't you tell me he's a poet or something?"
"Yes, he had some work published in the Evergreen Review."
"Ooh!" Florence rolled her eyes dramatically, as she flopped down onto the settee. "The Evergreen! He's a real artiste. Gonna listen to some jazz, maybe puff on some reefers maybe."
"Oh, Florence," Susan exclaimed, her precise English accent loud and brittle, "reefers are so outre. I was just going to get smashingly drunk and start dancing on some tables. Maybe Alan can beat on a few bongos for a bit of that wild jungle beat." She picked up her purse, her knuckles turning white under her gloves of caramel leather. "You know those poets and jazzmen. One always hears about the depths of their depravity. Naturally such reputations were not gained from drinking hot milk and winning spelling bees."
Florence sat up, her eyes suddenly wide. "Say! You're joking, aren't you?"
"Maybe I am, Florence, and maybe I'm not." She placed her hand on her hip. "You should know by now that even such a respectable and efficient secretary such as Miss Susan Pevensie might have a dark side that would shock even those jaded scandalmongers at the Daily Mirror. Now, if you will permit me to excuse myself-"
"Jeez, Susie, don't get all nose-in-the-air. It's not that I have anything against Jews, mind you. It's just the parents back in ol' Schenectady would die if I ever considered datin' one." She eyed her, curiously and tipsily. "Wouldn't your parents mind or somethin'?"
"Maybe they would, if they were alive." Somehow, she was able to keep her voice perfectly level.
Florence's mouth dropped. "Ah, Christ, I didn't mean-"
"Please, Florence darling. Have another scotch. It might make you feel better." With that, Susan walked out of the apartment, letting the door slam behind her. She ran down the stairs of their four-story walk-up, fighting back the urge to scream, or wail or sob. For once, she had almost been able to get though the whole hellish holiday season without thinking of her family, her family who had died almost ten years ago, in that railway accident.
She burst out into the cold December air, which felt like an icy balm against her feverish face. Putting her face down, she walked to the nearest subway station, down the dark, grimy stairs, littered with gum wads and cigarette butts. After popping the token in the slot and pushing her way through the turnstile, Susan emerged onto the downtown platform. Wrapping her arms around her, she peered miserably down the pitch-black tunnel. The place was deserted. Even the ticket booth was closed and empty- odd, she supposed, for this time of the night. Shivering, she wondered when the A would arrive.
Despite herself, she thought of her mother and father. She thought of her sister too, her yellow hair in pigtails, and her brothers, the older, dark and serious, and the younger with a face still round with baby fat. Their images, dim as disintegrating film, flickered before her eyes. She swallowed. She was still here- her sweaty hands still sheathed in gloves- her feet, encased in Italian leather pumps with two inch and a half heels, pressing against the concrete. She felt the blood, the bone, the sheer meat of her being existing- the churning of her intestines, the beating of her heart, the breath in her lungs- and they- her loved ones, her blood and kin- were nothing. They had meant everything to her, and now they were nothing. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that they'd ever existed.
Her stare down the tunnel became more fixed. Sometimes, she had fantasies, of flinging herself before an oncoming train. It would be a horrible way to die, of course, with the wheels slicing into her flesh- her limbs severed, her brains splattered- but it would be over so quickly, wouldn't it; and she wouldn't have to worry anymore, this tiresome business of life would be over, and all that would be left to her is sweet, black oblivion.
"Not just oblivion, my Queen."
Susan jumped, and looked around. I must be imagining things, she thought nervously. God, I hate the holidays.
"You are not imagining things, my Queen. I bring you," a papery voice whispered, "glad tidings."
And from behind a concrete pillar stepped a decrepit old tramp, in the most tattered clothing Susan had ever seen. He had tangled white beard and stringy hair half-hidden by a slouch hat, and shoes that flapped open, panting, like the mouths of dogs. His face was wrinkled as old parchment and his nose was thick and bulbous, but his eyes were sharp as blades.
"Your kingdom awaits you," he said.
"My- my kingdom?" Susan froze.
"Yes, my Queen. your kingdom. The one of your youth- the one that you deserted, so long ago."
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she said with the chilly accents normally reserved for bums and would-be wolves who tried to chat her up on subway platforms.
"Oh, I think you do." The old man smiled. "Think back, my Queen. take yourself away from this tedious world. think back when you were young."
Susan gaped- and although her skin crawled in horror- her mind did indeed flicker back on the games that she and her siblings used to play, a long time ago. Games with kings, and queens, and centaurs and mermaids and fauns and cruel Eastern princes. God-like lions and villainous giants; unspeakably ancient cities, harsh deserts, icy northern peaks. Susan used to make maps, because she was clever at things like that, and with colored pencils and paper, she was able to create whole worlds, where forests were marked carefully with green, oceans had beasties springing out the depths, and southern cities had minarets and gates straight out of National Geographic. It had been jolly good fun, for a while, and it had helped pass the time, after they had been relocated to the countryside while London was being bombed by the Nazis.
Susan had loved the game, for a while, and she had been as inventive as anyone in coming up with "adventures," but she tired of it quickly, when the war ended. The men had come home; the enemy had been defeated. She had wanted to dress up, go to dances where they played hot jazz and later go out with men and make out with them in cars. It was at that point that she had drifted apart from her sister- Lucy- who, until then, had been her closest friend in the world. She couldn't understand why her sister was so attached to such a childish, irrelevant thing. One might as well spend all one's waking hours fantasizing about Harvey the Invisible Rabbit. As for herself, she was sick and tired of sitting on swings and dreaming about imaginary kingdoms.
"That was nothing," she snapped. "Childish fancies. Certainly nothing worth considering now."
"That is where you are wrong, Queen Susan. Narnia is not imaginary. It is more real than anything you have ever known."
"Narnia," said Susan frigidly- although she was more afraid than she could ever remember- "is real, in that it is a town in Northern Italy. I picked the name off of a map when all of us were thinking of a name for our own little Cloud-Cuckooland."
"Narnia is real," the strange old man continued, as if she had not spoken. "And you are the Queen. Queen Susan the Gentle. Along with King Peter the Magnificent, King Edmund the Just, and Queen Lucy the Valiant, you shall rule over Narnia- the Real Narnia." The old man's eyes shone with an unearthly light. "You shall live forever."
"But I don't want to live forever-"
"Who would desire to live forever, on this corrupt and evil soil?" the old man asked. He stepped closer to her; and Susan, mesmerized, did not protest. "But- in the Real Narnia- you shall rejoice in the light of goodness forever."
"And ever," she added, unable to help herself.
"Amen," said the old man, as the grinding rumble and blinding white lights of the subway filled the tunnel, he flung himself at her, his hands outstretched, and his fingers bent like claws.
**to be continued**
I promise to finish it, but please be patient; it will probably take me a while. Of course, reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy!
***
The Subway
New York, 1957
"There you are, Susan honey. Say, you're all dolled up!" Florence Jenkins, arranged on the settee, crossed her legs and finished with one big swallow her scotch on the rocks. "Gonna paint the town with that Jew boyfriend of yours?"
"As a matter of fact, I was." Quickly and precisely, Susan Pevensie knotted her scarf under her chin, trying to hide her growing fury. "And please don't refer to him as my 'Jew boyfriend'. his name is Alan."
"Yeah. you told me his name was Al. Al Hymie or somethin'." She hiccuped loudly.
"No." She gave her new roommate and fellow secretary a piercing glare. "It's Alan Chaimowitz!"
Florence shrugged and giggled. "Have it your way, honey. I'm sure a classy English dame like you knows how to pick out the best men. Where's he takin' you out tonght? The Stork Club? The El Morocco? How 'bout the Rainbow Room?"
"No." Susan picked up her gloves and shoved her hands into them. "We were thinking of finding some bistro down in Greenwich Village. We were going to meet at Washington Square."
"Gee, that's swell, kid. Sounds so bohemian! Didn't you tell me he's a poet or something?"
"Yes, he had some work published in the Evergreen Review."
"Ooh!" Florence rolled her eyes dramatically, as she flopped down onto the settee. "The Evergreen! He's a real artiste. Gonna listen to some jazz, maybe puff on some reefers maybe."
"Oh, Florence," Susan exclaimed, her precise English accent loud and brittle, "reefers are so outre. I was just going to get smashingly drunk and start dancing on some tables. Maybe Alan can beat on a few bongos for a bit of that wild jungle beat." She picked up her purse, her knuckles turning white under her gloves of caramel leather. "You know those poets and jazzmen. One always hears about the depths of their depravity. Naturally such reputations were not gained from drinking hot milk and winning spelling bees."
Florence sat up, her eyes suddenly wide. "Say! You're joking, aren't you?"
"Maybe I am, Florence, and maybe I'm not." She placed her hand on her hip. "You should know by now that even such a respectable and efficient secretary such as Miss Susan Pevensie might have a dark side that would shock even those jaded scandalmongers at the Daily Mirror. Now, if you will permit me to excuse myself-"
"Jeez, Susie, don't get all nose-in-the-air. It's not that I have anything against Jews, mind you. It's just the parents back in ol' Schenectady would die if I ever considered datin' one." She eyed her, curiously and tipsily. "Wouldn't your parents mind or somethin'?"
"Maybe they would, if they were alive." Somehow, she was able to keep her voice perfectly level.
Florence's mouth dropped. "Ah, Christ, I didn't mean-"
"Please, Florence darling. Have another scotch. It might make you feel better." With that, Susan walked out of the apartment, letting the door slam behind her. She ran down the stairs of their four-story walk-up, fighting back the urge to scream, or wail or sob. For once, she had almost been able to get though the whole hellish holiday season without thinking of her family, her family who had died almost ten years ago, in that railway accident.
She burst out into the cold December air, which felt like an icy balm against her feverish face. Putting her face down, she walked to the nearest subway station, down the dark, grimy stairs, littered with gum wads and cigarette butts. After popping the token in the slot and pushing her way through the turnstile, Susan emerged onto the downtown platform. Wrapping her arms around her, she peered miserably down the pitch-black tunnel. The place was deserted. Even the ticket booth was closed and empty- odd, she supposed, for this time of the night. Shivering, she wondered when the A would arrive.
Despite herself, she thought of her mother and father. She thought of her sister too, her yellow hair in pigtails, and her brothers, the older, dark and serious, and the younger with a face still round with baby fat. Their images, dim as disintegrating film, flickered before her eyes. She swallowed. She was still here- her sweaty hands still sheathed in gloves- her feet, encased in Italian leather pumps with two inch and a half heels, pressing against the concrete. She felt the blood, the bone, the sheer meat of her being existing- the churning of her intestines, the beating of her heart, the breath in her lungs- and they- her loved ones, her blood and kin- were nothing. They had meant everything to her, and now they were nothing. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that they'd ever existed.
Her stare down the tunnel became more fixed. Sometimes, she had fantasies, of flinging herself before an oncoming train. It would be a horrible way to die, of course, with the wheels slicing into her flesh- her limbs severed, her brains splattered- but it would be over so quickly, wouldn't it; and she wouldn't have to worry anymore, this tiresome business of life would be over, and all that would be left to her is sweet, black oblivion.
"Not just oblivion, my Queen."
Susan jumped, and looked around. I must be imagining things, she thought nervously. God, I hate the holidays.
"You are not imagining things, my Queen. I bring you," a papery voice whispered, "glad tidings."
And from behind a concrete pillar stepped a decrepit old tramp, in the most tattered clothing Susan had ever seen. He had tangled white beard and stringy hair half-hidden by a slouch hat, and shoes that flapped open, panting, like the mouths of dogs. His face was wrinkled as old parchment and his nose was thick and bulbous, but his eyes were sharp as blades.
"Your kingdom awaits you," he said.
"My- my kingdom?" Susan froze.
"Yes, my Queen. your kingdom. The one of your youth- the one that you deserted, so long ago."
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she said with the chilly accents normally reserved for bums and would-be wolves who tried to chat her up on subway platforms.
"Oh, I think you do." The old man smiled. "Think back, my Queen. take yourself away from this tedious world. think back when you were young."
Susan gaped- and although her skin crawled in horror- her mind did indeed flicker back on the games that she and her siblings used to play, a long time ago. Games with kings, and queens, and centaurs and mermaids and fauns and cruel Eastern princes. God-like lions and villainous giants; unspeakably ancient cities, harsh deserts, icy northern peaks. Susan used to make maps, because she was clever at things like that, and with colored pencils and paper, she was able to create whole worlds, where forests were marked carefully with green, oceans had beasties springing out the depths, and southern cities had minarets and gates straight out of National Geographic. It had been jolly good fun, for a while, and it had helped pass the time, after they had been relocated to the countryside while London was being bombed by the Nazis.
Susan had loved the game, for a while, and she had been as inventive as anyone in coming up with "adventures," but she tired of it quickly, when the war ended. The men had come home; the enemy had been defeated. She had wanted to dress up, go to dances where they played hot jazz and later go out with men and make out with them in cars. It was at that point that she had drifted apart from her sister- Lucy- who, until then, had been her closest friend in the world. She couldn't understand why her sister was so attached to such a childish, irrelevant thing. One might as well spend all one's waking hours fantasizing about Harvey the Invisible Rabbit. As for herself, she was sick and tired of sitting on swings and dreaming about imaginary kingdoms.
"That was nothing," she snapped. "Childish fancies. Certainly nothing worth considering now."
"That is where you are wrong, Queen Susan. Narnia is not imaginary. It is more real than anything you have ever known."
"Narnia," said Susan frigidly- although she was more afraid than she could ever remember- "is real, in that it is a town in Northern Italy. I picked the name off of a map when all of us were thinking of a name for our own little Cloud-Cuckooland."
"Narnia is real," the strange old man continued, as if she had not spoken. "And you are the Queen. Queen Susan the Gentle. Along with King Peter the Magnificent, King Edmund the Just, and Queen Lucy the Valiant, you shall rule over Narnia- the Real Narnia." The old man's eyes shone with an unearthly light. "You shall live forever."
"But I don't want to live forever-"
"Who would desire to live forever, on this corrupt and evil soil?" the old man asked. He stepped closer to her; and Susan, mesmerized, did not protest. "But- in the Real Narnia- you shall rejoice in the light of goodness forever."
"And ever," she added, unable to help herself.
"Amen," said the old man, as the grinding rumble and blinding white lights of the subway filled the tunnel, he flung himself at her, his hands outstretched, and his fingers bent like claws.
**to be continued**