The Adventures of Emily and Roy

What if I tried to summon the ghost of Roy Cohn? Who would I bring along with me?

I would march downstairs and proclaim, “I am going to summon the ghost of Roy Cohn.” And my brother would laugh, and my sister would leave the room, and father would not have heard me, and my mother would go, “okay.” She would say just “okay,” and maybe “be safe.”

I would walk outside and gather my friends, wherever they are, but they wouldn’t come. They like the idea of Roy Cohn because they like me, but meeting his ghost is just one step too far. So I would then ask the voices in my head, the characters in the endless daydreams I’ve written for myself. I would assume they would come, of course, because they are not real people but projections of myself. But they too would decline on the basis of “this being my journey” and all.

Then I would call my therapist and email my professors, and the academics would tell me it’s a bold pursuit to summon Roy Cohn’s ghost and to keep them updated on how it goes, and my therapist would ask how I’ve been sleeping. I would have to tell her poorly because that’s the truth, and she would say “maybe you should just take a nap instead.” But I would remind her then that I’ve never dreamt of Roy Cohn, that he only haunts my waking hours like a breeze that was a little colder than you anticipated or the sense that someone is watching you when you pass a window.

Once I was sure there was no one left to ask -no one who I had loved or cared for or overthought every word in a text they sent to me- I would set out on my own. I would stop at the big mansion in Greenwich and the apartment on the Upper East Side just to check if he was there, and then I would head to Queens where I would sit in front of the Marcus Mausoleum and I would knock gently on the door. I would ask politely, “Is Roy Cohn in?” although I would not take no for an answer. I would sit there then, in front of a mausoleum in a cemetery in the middle of Queens, until I finally met Roy Cohn’s ghost.

Every day I turn around, expecting him to be there. I’ve seen him in the words I write, in the posture with which I carry myself, in the way I’ve come to exist in the world. I have lived with Roy Cohn’s ghost for the last two years, so to meet him is only fair.

It’s only fair.