by Chase Connor
“Told you I was amazing.”
“Then what do we do now?” I shrugged. “The sun will be up soon. And you are leaving for America.”
Peter stared at me.
“Our castle is…is…crumbling?”
“How can something we are planning to build crumble before we build it?”
“Where will we build it?”
“America,” Peter answered quickly. “We will have our castle in America.”
“Why not Québec?”
“You hate Québec.”
“I don’t hate it. It is just—just—”
“Say it.” Peter wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Say you hate Québec. I want to hear you say it.”
“Why?”
“It turns me on.”
“You really are crazy.”
“Surely.”
“I hate Québec.”
“Yes.” Peter moaned comically.
I chuckled.
“But I do not.” I shook my head with a sigh. “Québec is…if things were different, Québec would be…nice.”
“So, maybe you hate what Québec represents?”
“Maybe.”
“Minneapolis is nice,” Peter said lowly. “I think you would like Minneapolis.”
“Are you going to put me in your suitcase?” I teased, leaning down to stub my cigarette out on the ground.
Peter followed my lead.
“Now that is insane,” Peter responded. “You would ride in an airplane seat like anyone else.”
I had no response to that suggestion.
“You will fly to America, and I will woo you.” Peter nodded. “And you will see that I was not lying about being an amazing guy. And then you will want to build your castle with me.”
“I am Québécois.” I said, simply. “I am not American citizen. I would not be allowed to stay for long, especially for as long as it takes to build a castle.”
“You are not Québécois.” Peter shook his head. “You are a citizen of the world, Enzo. I know that about you. You have never felt like you belonged anywhere you have lived, so every place is the same. So…why not Minneapolis? Maybe you will feel like you belong there.”
“You are completely insane.”
“You keep saying that.” Peter was grinning yet again. “But you haven’t once told me to stop talking. You haven’t said I’m wrong.”
“So?”
“Sunrise is coming.”
“Yes.”
“Confessing the truth is easier in the dark of night.”
“Why?”
“Because the night knows us in ways that the day never will. We have a primal, evolutionary fear of the dark and unknown. The truth isn’t as scary when it’s stood next to that.”
“That is—”
“Insane?”
“Yes.”
“So? What’s the truth?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Are you really so sure?”
“No. But maybe I need to know more.”
“Ask me anything.”
“What is your favorite color?”
“Red. Specifically, the color of red some Maple leaves turn in Fall.” Peter answered quickly. “My favorite food is anything I am not supposed to eat and lots of it. My favorite movie is books. I sleep on the left side of the bed, even now that I am single, instead of sleeping in the middle, because I am saving room and hope. I love red wine and dark beer. And sometimes I overdo it. I never go to church unless someone I like and care about invites me. Dogs are better than cats. My job is boring, but I love it. I never thought about having kids because I would make a poor father, though my parents are great. When I was a kid, I thought I’d be a movie star because I liked being the center of attention, though I despise it now. And when I wake up on Sundays at home, and I have no one to share coffee with or be not so sweet with, sometimes I feel like crying.”
Again, I was unsure of what, if anything, I could say.
“Lastly, I know without a doubt that two people do not have a night like this unless pieces of them knew each other when stars exploded billions of years ago. Call that God or providence or the universe moving us along, but I know it to be true.”
“You are—”
“Insane?”
“Wonderful,” I whispered. “I was going to say ‘wonderful.’”
“Thank you.”
“I am not so sure the universe is on my side anymore.”
“That’s between you and the universe.” Peter shrugged. “But it’s just you and me right now. Even if the universe is listening in.”
“How do I know that you are not just saying these things because you will never see me again?”
“I will see you again, Enzo.” Peter leveled me with his eyes. “And when I do, I won’t let you go. I know this is insane, and you think I’m mad—hell, maybe I am—but, well, here we are.”
“What?” I was suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
“Here we are.” Peter shrugged. “What do we do with this?”
My chest began to heave as I fought to breathe, and I leapt up from the side of the fountain. Before I could stop myself, I was running away as Peter screamed for me to stop.
Where A Heart Belongs
Christmas was always my favorite time of year. Even though my mother was adamant that we attend church services for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve and then services again on Christmas morning, making those two days very sleepy days, I still loved Christmas. Réveillon on Christmas Eve with the oyster stew—which I picked the oysters out of—escargot (which I pushed around my plate), the duck and scallops, roasted vegetables, chestnuts, sometimes caviar (which I also hated), turkey, and cheeses. The thirteen (or more) desserts, of which I had a little of each. Putting my shoes by the fireplace for Père Noël’s imminent visit—when I still believed in such things. Maman would have music playing before and after dinner, right up until Midnight Mass. Il Est Né Le Divin Enfant always played, followed by Douce Nuit, Sainte Nuit. Possibly Le Petit Renne Au Nez Rouge if my mother was in the right mood to allow silly songs to be played. Usually, we listened to slow, traditional Christmas songs or songs with religious themes that my mother felt fit the holiday, but I loved them all. Some songs and foods, when experienced together, replay memories a person feels they have forgotten.
Growing up in my childhood home in Mantes, Christmas was a religious event—as well it should be, all things considered. It’s quite literally the observance of the birthday of the son of God—though that aspect of my religion I felt difficult to truly believe. Regardless, my parents, and especially my grandmother, felt that Christmas was also about joy and thankfulness. We were not only allowed to think about our God, his son, and our religion. We were allowed to enjoy each other. To be thankful for and celebrate our home and food. As religious as my parents could be at times, especially my mother, she saw the value in appreciating what God had provided. That was my favorite thing about Christmas. That and the gifts, of course.
Gifts, even when our financial situation allowed for luxuries, were often meager in our home. My parents were not tolerant of ostentations or gross displays of wealth., though I would get at least one toy every year that was quite nice. Shoes, socks, clothing, books, anything educational, food—these were the gifts that my parents appreciated most. Père Noël’s visits were something I looked forward to every year, until I grew out of it, though I always found he left me much different gifts than my friends at school. Nuts and fruit, a book, maybe some chocolates, were what he felt that I deserved year after year. Though I wasn’t upset by this, I just found it odd that he treated me so differently than my friends. I vacillated between feeling special compared to my friends and less liked than my friends, based on what was left each Christmas morning.
Things changed when Noe, and then Ila, joined our family. Christmases became even more joyous. Ila always got toys and sweets, and Noe always got books about rocks and animals that contained lots of pictures. And Le Petit
Renne Au Nez Rouge always found its way into the song rotation on Christmas Eve. Maman became laxer in what she did and didn’t allow at Christmas once our family became bigger. The food changed as well. The things I hated so much—the oysters and caviar and escargot were replaced with succulent cuts of pork and beef, though the turkey and duck were still present. The desserts became more lavish and varied so that there was something everyone would eat. Ila and Noe—and their particular challenges—were a boon for a young me. I hated to think of their difficulties with certain foods as a good thing for myself, but it was simply fact. Their aversions to certain things that I simply just didn’t want to eat made life easier on me. It was something I prayed about at church on every visit.
I think God understood.
Christmas was about God and family and church and the appreciation of all of those things. It was on Christmas Eve, after our prayers were said around the table, before we dug into the glorious meal my mother had made, that my father made his announcement. I was still holding grandmother’s hand in one of mine and Ila’s in the other, from saying the prayer, when my father got our attention. Noe had put his foot on top of mine under the dinner table like he often did for comfort.
We were going to leave France.
That’s what my father had to say.
He had accepted a job offer in Canada—a place I knew quite a bit about from my studies in school, though I understood very little about it. We were going to be leaving before spring arrived. When the last of his words left his mouth, I had leapt up from our holiday table and darted for the door, running from this announcement.
I didn’t get far.
I wasn’t wearing appropriate shoes. I was wearing my nice black leather shoes with slick soles that my mother insisted I wear for Réveillon, along with my nice black slacks and my holiday sweater that I absolutely loathed. When the bottoms of my shoes hit the slick walkway at the bottom of the porch, my feet went over my head, and I was suddenly sitting on the concrete. Stunned, and unsure of what to do next, I simply pulled knees up to my chest and hugged them to me. I didn’t want to leave France to live in a foreign country—even if I knew the languages. I didn’t want to leave the life I knew and felt safe in—even if it was imperfect.
France was all I had known. Even with the racist friends and the ignorant church people and the neighbors who didn’t deserve dogs and the feeling that I would never belong—it was my home. A child can learn to accept many things as long as there is familiarity to them. Mantes was awful. But it was the devil I knew.
“Well,” I heard my grandmother’s voice coming from the porch, “you certainly gave up quickly, didn’t you? I thought I would have to chase you down the street. And I don’t even have my sneakers on.”
I lowered my head into the cavern created by my knees and arms, burying my face.
Grandmother’s feet sounded on the porch steps, and then I heard her shuffling gently towards me on the front walk. Finally, she was standing beside me. I could see her legs through the gap between my thigh and my torso.
“Are you going to sit here and freeze to death?” She asked. “Or are you just catching your breath before you take off running again? I need to know if I need to go put on better shoes.”
“You are too old to chase me.”
She chuckled.
“That may be so.” She agreed. “But I would chase you anyway. I wouldn’t want you to revel in your grief alone, Enzo.”
“What do you know?” I snapped, which I never did with my grandmother. “You don’t understand.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It is.”
“Do you see many people around here who look like me?”
I didn’t answer. I knew I was being foolish.
“Other than down at the market or cleaning in hotels, of course.” She continued. “I suppose that I do not understand what it means to be you, Enzo. But I understand your situation. More than anyone else in this family. So, trust me when I say that you are being unfair to your father.”
“Unfair?” I proclaimed, raising my head to glare at her. “He is being unfair to me! I do not want to leave France, Grandmother. This is my home.”
“Your family is your home, Enzo.” She said. “Not France. Wherever you have someone who loves you, you are home.”
Grumbling, I lowered my head once more, though I did not bury my face in the cavern of my body.
“I hate him.”
She chuckled.
“And tomorrow the sun will still rise. Isn’t that funny?”
“No. I mean…what?”
“Whether you are angry or happy or you decide to accept that this is what is to be, a new day will dawn, Enzo.” She said, leaning down to place a hand on my shoulder. “You either greet that day with a raised head, or you allow it to go on without you. Either way, it will go on.”
“I don’t want to leave France, Mamie.”
“Well, I am happy here, too. But that is because I have my family. I will have my family in Canada, too.”
“I suppose.”
“And what an amazing thing.” She sighed dreamily. “Having such an adventure at my age. Going to live in another country halfway around the world. I have not left Mantes in…I do not know how long, Enzo. I have never been anywhere but Cambodia and France. Here we are. Who am I to see this as bad?”
“Mamie.” I looked up, my eyes watery. “What if no one likes me there either?”
“I will be there. I like you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Enzo,” She sighed and smiled down at me, “are you telling me that you would rather lead an ordinary life simply because you are worried whether or not people will like you? I have known that you have not been happy here for quite some time. Maybe you need to have faith that Canada will bring you the happiness you want. If nothing else, at least it will be a change.”
“I guess.”
“Come inside. Be nice to your father. Apologize if you can bring yourself to do it. Then eat.” She suggested. “You can talk to God at church tonight.”
“God obviously hates me.”
“Then talk to the universe. Maybe it will put a good word in for you.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. Finally, with a sigh, I pulled myself up from the walkway, being careful as to not slip again and possibly send myself—and my grandmother—crashing to the ground once more.
“Maman will be mad that I fell in my good clothes.” I grimaced as my eyes met my grandmother’s. “She will be mad that my clothes are dirty for Mass.”
“Well, lucky for you, God loves dirty behinds, too.” She reached up and patted my cheek.
Of course, I had to laugh at that, too.
Grandmother took my arm in hers, under the pretense that she needed my help up the steps, though I knew she was perfectly capable.
“If you’re going to chase something, Enzo, make sure there’s actually something there.”
“What?”
“When you ran out of the house, where were you running?”
“I don’t know.”
“Precisely. If you want to give chase, make sure there’s something to actually chase.”
“Is that why you would have chased me?”
“I would have chased you to Canada on foot if I had to, Enzo. That’s how much I care.”
I laughed. “That’s ridiculous. And dangerous. I mean, there is an entire ocean between here and there.”
“It’s amazing, the courage one can have when they know where their heart belongs.”
I never apologized to my father for dampening his good news on such a joyous night. I did wish him “Joyeux Noël” before I went to bed.
We All Want More
Running has always been something I’ve excelled at from a very young age. I’ve rarely been the absolutely fastest runner, but I could run for miles without growing weary. When one considers how easily I trip over my own feet or bump into things when I am just walking, my exceptional
running skills are even more impressive. There is something about the rhythmic pumping of my legs, my arms swinging into the air at my sides, and the wind in my hair that gives me grace and style. I’m most coordinated when I am running, but I am never at my best because running is not me. It is how I forget myself and my circumstances. It is how I clear my mind of all thoughts of what concerns me in life or the sorrows that have burrowed into my soul and refuse to vacate. I can simply run and feel the wind in my hair and the ground slamming into my feet, and all thoughts are chased away so that I do not have to face what life has presented to me.
It’s an escape.
I am chasing, but I am not sure what it is I am chasing.
Peter didn’t have to run far to catch me because I didn’t even get to the street before I stopped running and slid to a stop in the middle of the square.
“What the hell are you doing?” Peter gasped, obviously less accustomed to quick dashes in the cold air than I. “Why are you running away?”
“I’m not,” I answered stupidly. “I stopped.”
“But why did you run at all?”
“You said something that reminded me of my grandmother.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. And my maman.” I said, looking away. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Peter reached out tentatively, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Enzo.”
“You didn’t upset me.” I still refused to look at him.
Not because I was upset and trying to skate around my feelings, but because I already had a tear sliding down my cheek, and I could not bear to have him see me cry twice in one night.
“Hey. Look at me, Enzo.”
“No.”
“Please?”
Without a single word, I turned to look at Peter, and I did nothing to hide my tears. I knew that he knew I was crying, so trying to cover my tears would have made it more obvious.
“Don’t run from me.”
“I wasn’t running from you.”
“What were you running from?”
I reached up and tapped the side of my head with a single finger.