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Twenty-Seven Steps, Chapter 17: This Isn’t Something I Can Explain [November 1979]

Series summary: Callahan is an American living and studying in London. When Freddie befriends her and brings her into Queen’s inner circle, she finally learns what it’s like to have a family. But love and loyalty aren’t always black and white, and Calla must navigate conflicting desires and obligations as she accompanies John, Roger, Brian, and Freddie through their interwoven lives.

Chapter summary: Brian spills a secret.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content sorta, hella angst, I’m sorry plz forgive me.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @the-borhap-boys @pinkmarvel @killer-queen-xo @killah-queenz @sincereleygmg @calspixie @fire-and-blood-got @imgonnabeyourslave

When he was a boy, the wallpaper that lined Roger’s bedroom had been speckled with ships. There were all kinds—schooners, destroyers, carracks, cruisers, yachts, clippers—crashing through parchment waves, sailing over a boundless imaginary ocean, pursuing adventure unconditionally. Even then, as a child staring up at the images with his hands interlaced behind his shaggy blond hair, Roger had loathed the thought of anchors. They were tethers to confine, to control; a ship could go anywhere, be anything, but an anchor was the great ender of possibilities. As he grew older, Roger learned that anchors were not just curves of iron to ground a ship. A nine-to-five job could be an anchor; so could drinking or university degrees or fear of the black, beckoning unknown. And marriage...marriage was the heaviest anchor in the world. It was useless, senseless: you could love someone without being married to them, and you could marry someone without loving them at all. It was an albatross that kept people together long after affections had fled, after their children heard them screaming in the night, after fists started flying. Since he was old enough to understand the word, Roger had wanted nothing at all do to with marriage. And yet, and yet...

His palms pressed against the hallway walls as he dragged himself towards his suite, weighed down with rum and exhaustion. It was three in the morning. Queen were in Barcelona. At home in London, Calla would be curled up under a pile of blankets and sound asleep; Roger thought a lot about what she was doing while they were on tour. He thought about that more than he wanted to.

A door opened a few rooms down, and a blonde woman stepped out into the hallway. She was wearing a G-string, a sequined bra, heels, and nothing else. She smiled shyly at Roger and skittered like a gazelle towards the stairwell. Roger watched her go, appreciating the supple lines of her body, the way her full tits and ass quivered as she walked. And then, from the same room, a man appeared.

Roger’s pale eyes started at his boots—hastily yanked on, still untied—then over the slim black jeans and the hands fumbling to buckle his belt. Next was his shirt, deep violet, half-unbuttoned. And finally: leanly-muscled shoulders, disheveled hair, dark eyes like the mouth of a well. It was John.

The words came out before Roger knew he was going to say them, vengeful, seething: “How fucking dare you.”

He had known that John was in a perilous place emotionally, was drinking too much, was getting more handsy with the girls than usual. But this...this had always seemed impossible. Roger supposed what he should have felt was relief, was vindication. John Deacon, the incorruptible moral compass, the stable husband, the doting father; John Deacon, the sole faithful member of Queen, finally reduced to just another rock star fucking groupies and strippers in whatever room they found themselves in, lathered in guilt and sweat, snarled together like sailors’ knots. Instead, all Roger felt was rage.

John saw him and recoiled, stunned, stumbling backwards. He hadn’t known anyone would be there, hadn’t wanted anyone to see him, and the shame on his face was fresh; maybe this was the first time. Maybe it was the hundredth. Maybe it was the first time he’d been caught. He blinked, blearily; he was so drunk, maybe even blackout. It occurred to Roger that perhaps John had to be drunk to do this, had to be numb to everything deeper than the flesh. Then his features swam from shock to indignance. “Oh, have you suddenly undertaken a vow of celibacy on this tour?” John slurred. “I’ll let Dominique know, she’ll be overjoyed.”

“We’re not married.”

“I’m sure that’s a comfort to her.” He pushed by Roger and staggered down the hallway towards the elevator. Roger wanted to say something else, wanted to scream at him, wanted to snap him in half, wanted to make it so this night had never happened. He couldn’t wrangle his thoughts into words, couldn’t take a single step. John slipped inside the elevator and the doors closed behind him.

Calla.

Roger’s paralysis sloughed off like a second skin and he bolted to his suite. He slammed the door behind him, gasping, blood rushing like the ocean in his ears. He grabbed the nearest thing to him—the television—and pitched it to the floor, goring it with his boot. He wrenched the mirror off the vanity and hurled it against the wall. The glass flew in every direction, one shard burying itself in his calf. Roger didn’t notice. He tore the curtains off the windows. He kicked the wooden desk chair to splinters. Then, shrieking, he ripped the paintings off the wall; all but one, which stopped Roger dead in his tracks, which stared ominously at him from its place above the bed, dreary and grey and hopeless.

There, in textured whirls of oil paint, was a sinking ship.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Hi, Bri! How are you? How’s Spain? Fabulously warm? I’m quaking with envy, you know.” Calla smiled into the phone, imagining the glaring sun of the Mediterranean, the sea salt in the breeze.

“Calla dear, it’s lovely to hear from you. We’re doing wonderfully. Did you get my biyearly contribution for our covert little project?”

Every six months Freddie sent Calla a check for ten percent of his earnings, a return on her investment made in 1972. For years, she had tried to refuse to take the money; once that proved futile, she searched for something worthwhile to spend it on. She had recently started a foundation to help fund orphanages in India and provide the children with education and vocational training, and she convinced Brian to go in with her as a fifty-fifty partner. The only other people who knew about it were John, who handled the taxes, and Chrissie.

“I did, thank you kindly. Chrissie passed it along. I promise I’ll see that it’s put to good use.”

“I trust you entirely, you know that. How are the kids? Is Kendra May walking yet?” Calla marveled at how they had each claimed one of her children: Carlisle was John’s through and through, Little Fred was a whirlwind who connected completely and inexplicably with his namesake, Brian was utterly enamored with Kendra. Calla realized then that Roger didn’t have one, that he never would. It had never felt right to name one of the others after him; they were all dark-haired, dark-eyed, so much like John. Now it was too late.

Calla laughed. “She certainly thinks she is. It’s more like drunken lurching at this stage, but she’ll get the hang of it eventually. Bri, have you seen John?”

A pause; always a pause. “Ah...I don’t think he’s around at the moment.”

“Is he...has he...” Calla wasn’t sure what she was trying to ask. How is he doing? Is he drinking too much? Has he forgotten about me? Is he okay?

“He’s very discrete, Calla,” Brian said softly; like it was a comfort, like it was a gift.

“What?” She gripped the phone tightly, standing. “What was that?”

“Oh...oh fuck, Calla, I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s just, I don’t know what you mean.” He’s discrete...?

“I didn’t...I thought...”

And then it hit her, hit her like lightening, hit her like a bullet. John was being discrete, and that was a good thing. It was a good thing because he was fucking other people. Not discrete enough that Brian doesn’t know about it. That everyone on the tour with them doesn’t know about it.

Brian would never have said that to one of the band’s significant others. But Calla wasn’t just a wife, wasn’t just a lover. She was a friend. She was family.

Calla’s knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. And in that moment she didn’t understand how this could be real.

That’s it. That’s how this ends.

He really is like all the others.

He really has forgotten about me.

And impulsively, illogically, she thought: If I was going to get fucked around on anyway I could have just married Roger.

Where did that come from?

“Oh my god, I’m, I’m so sorry, Calla,” Brian stammered. “I thought you knew, I thought that’s what you were asking me, I’m...I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t...please don’t...oh bloody fucking hell...”

“How?” That was all she could say. In her mind like a movie reel: meeting John in some dodgy music shop in London, falling in love with him, feeling safe with him, his palms against her face, his arms around her, their wedding, their children, their home, their promises to each other, the songs he wrote for her, the love he swore he’d always have for her. Gone, gone, gone, all of it gone.

’Whatever this world can give to me, it's you, you're all I see...’

Yeah fucking right.

“This isn’t something I can explain,” Brian said miserably. “Calla, I can’t...I’m not...I’m not the person you should be talking to. I’m so sorry—”

“That’s odd.” Her words were suddenly cutting. “I really thought this was your area of expertise, Brian.”

“Calla—!”

She hung up the phone. She tried to pull herself up off the floor. Her legs wouldn’t listen; her arms were useless. Calla gave in, laid across the cold colorless tiles, and stared up through the kitchen windows, trying to count the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

Outside the moon was full and brilliant. Winter was rolling in like high tide, rustling the trees, bringing shorter days and nights that lasted forever.

“If I didn’t think it would be insensitive, I’d say welcome to the club.” Chrissie sat opposite of Calla at the kitchen table. She held a lit cigarette between her fingers, the smoke rising lazily through the room. She swiped her forehead with the back of her shaking hand. Her eyes were red, glistening, sore. “Brian cheated on me. Freddie cheated on Mary before he came out. And Roger...I don’t even know how to put into words what Roger does.”

Calla shook her head. She didn’t know why she couldn’t cry, couldn’t break down sobbing like any normal person would, like Chrissie had on her behalf. Calla didn’t feel like crying. She felt nothing at all. “I don’t know what to say to him.”

“Don’t say anything. There’s no point. Are you going to leave him? No, of course you aren’t. Are you going to demand he stops, give him some ultimatum? No, because he wouldn’t listen.”

Calla gazed blankly at her, broken.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Chrissie sighed. “That if he was ordinary, just like any other husband, an electrical engineer or accountant, some nine-to-five office man...that if he was just John Deacon then this would never have happened to you. And you’re probably right. But he’s not just John Deacon. He’s Queen, he’s a rock star, he’s a legend, just like Brian and Fred and Rog. And there has to be some price to pay for all of that, doesn’t there? We get the children and the houses and the fortune...we get a better life than most people could ever dream of. Because of who our men are, because of what they’ve accomplished. But we will never have all of them.”

Calla stared at her open palms. They were empty, except for one ring on each hand: amethyst on the left, a pink stone on the right.

“And anyway, if you aren’t willing to pay that price then there are probably a million other women who would be, so don’t think you have any leverage here.”

“I don’t understand why he had to do this,” Calla said quietly. “I don’t understand what changed. I don’t understand what I did.”

“Honey, no.” Chrissie seized her hands fiercely. “You didn’t do anything. He did it. John did it. He has his choices. You can’t control them. You have your own to make.” Calla didn’t respond. “You once told me that even if Brian was unfaithful, it didn’t have to mean that he didn’t love me. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s just something they do. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.”

Calla met her eyes. “I think that’s easier advice to give than to receive.”

Chrissie smiled, tiredly, pained. “Now you understand.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m not going on stage with him.”

“Darling, what are you fretting about?!” Freddie pounded on the door with his fists. “It’s time to go, Rog! Jesus christ, they say I’m always late, they say I’m the dramatic one...”

Roger opened the door, and Freddie took off his sunglasses. His eyes went wide and darted everywhere as he took in the room, littered with glass and in utter disarray.

“Oh my,” he breathed. He closed the door behind him cautiously. “So...”

“He did it. The bastard finally did it.” Roger paced to Freddie, to the wall, back to Fred.

“Who, Rog?”

“John fucking Deacon.”

“Deaky...? What did he...?” Freddie was trying to understand, he really was.

Roger stared at Fred, hands on his waist.

“Oh,” Freddie said. “Oh.” He blinked, letting it sink through him. “Oh god, Calla.”

“I want to murder him, I want to stop him, I want to tell him exactly—”

“It’s not your place, Roger. And you’d be a hypocrite. You are far from the Virgin Mary.”

“That’s different,” he said weakly.

“Yes, it is different, isn’t it? And I know why it’s different. But John doesn’t, and I don’t think you want him to know. You don’t want him to know until you’ve decided what to do about it.”

“Whose fucking side are you on?! Who are you rooting for, Fred, tell me, I’d love to know.”

“I’m on Queen’s side. You should be too. This anger you have towards John, this bitterness—”

“Because he was supposed to be the good one!” Roger roared. “Because it was supposed to be okay that she married him, that she ended up with him, that he got the ring and the kids and fucking everything else because he was the good one.”

Freddie shrugged. “Maybe none of us are the good ones. Maybe we all are. Maybe life is more grey than black and white.”

Roger glared at him in disbelief. “Do you not care about her at all?”

Freddie raged across the room, jabbing his finger into Roger’s heaving chest. “Are you fucking insane? I would kill for that girl. I would gut lions and tigers with my bare hands for that girl. But meddling in her marriage is not my place, just like it isn’t yours. And I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to tell her and break her heart. Are you, Roger?”

Roger, hands in his pockets, studied the floor like it was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and said nothing. Of course he wouldn’t tell her. “She’s going to know. Even if it doesn’t end up in the tabloids. She’s not naïve. She can read people.” He covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head. “She can read everyone but me, apparently.”

“She knows everything about you, Rog. She just can’t bring herself to believe it.”

Roger looked up at Freddie, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Darling,” Freddie said impatiently, as if it was obvious. “Part of her is always going to be that scared little orphan girl from Chicago who doesn’t think anyone could love her.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Roger replied, wounded.

Freddie nodded wisely. “And yet our demons persist.” He pointed around the room, to the disemboweled television, the shattered mirror, the paintings torn off the walls. “You’ll have to pay for all this. Get cleaned up. We should have been on stage five minutes ago.”

“I’m not going,” Roger said, but even he sounded uncertain now.

“Of course you are, darling. It’s what we do. It’s all we know how to do. Go out there and get high on the crowd and play until you can’t feel anything, until even your bones feel like they belong to someone else. And then live to see another day.”

“Okay. Okay, Fred.” Roger pulled on a fresh shirt, picked a jacket out of his suitcase, combed his hair. Then he turned back to Freddie, his hands open, empty. “I don’t know what to do,” he said helplessly.

“What is she to you, Rog?”

What kind of a question was that? Not a wife, not a girlfriend, not a sister, not a lover. Nothing. Everything. The opposite of an anchor. At last he answered: “She’s my best friend.”

Freddie smiled. He’d already known. “Then act like it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The children had fallen asleep on the living room couch as Calla read them a bedtime story, the fire crackling in the woodstove, the light dim and auburn and flickering. She carried them upstairs one by one, clutching their tiny bodies to her chest, breathing them in. They looked so peaceful, so content. They didn’t know anything about the world yet, and she was glad.

The phone rang every few hours. Calla didn’t know who it was, Brian or Chrissie or John—not John, never John, he’s not thinking about you—or someone else entirely, it didn’t matter. She never answered. She had nothing to say. She felt gutted, hollow, bloodless. She felt like the world was nothing but winter.

As she paced around the kitchen, the phone rang again. Calla glared at it for a moment. Then something told her to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Roger said breathlessly. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Gotta start picking up the phone, Yankee. Are you okay?”

“Hi.” And there it was all at once: tears stinging in her eyes, trembling hands, a searing like embers in her throat. She pressed her knuckles to her lips, willing herself to stay silent.

“Do you need someone to talk to?”

“Yeah,” Calla whispered, and broke down completely, like a ship blasted into wreckage.

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