by Ann Jacobus
Inside, it’s white and bright and as cathedral-like as she expected, although with cleaner more modern lines. A huge blue and gold mosaic of Jesus Christ himself hovers over the altar in the massive dome. He’s flanked by assorted saints. Two large angels carved in bas-relief float above the congregation.
“Pretty impressive,” she says, craning her neck back. “I have nothing against churches—or mosques—by the way. Just against religions.”
“Mind sitting for a sec?” he asks. He’s pale.
“’Course not,” she says. They sit in two of the wooden, ladder-back chairs. It smells faintly of incense, Moony’s limey shampoo, and their salty warmness from the climb. Maybe it was too much for him. She has got to pay closer attention, because he’s never going to say anything until he’s almost passed out. It was his suggestion to come up here, she reminds herself.
She won’t ask if he’s okay. So, surprising herself, she takes his good hand. It’s warm and strong. And like she just plugged into …
An answer.
“It’s beautiful in here,” she says. “Totally worth the extreme climb. Thanks for inviting me.”
And for being my friend, she adds silently. Say it! You big chicken. And don’t let go of that hand.
She says softly, “And for being my friend.”
Moony’s smile practically blasts sunshine. Would that she could reflect it back to him. She tries.
It’s the perfect time to tell him about Kurt. That she knows Kurt better than she let on at Les Puces. And that something about him scares her. She needs to hear what Moony will say.
But Moony says, “I have another operation.”
“You do? I thought you were done.”
“Christmas holidays.”
“That sucks. What for?” A knot tightens in her middle.
“List is long.” There’s something different in his voice. Reticence or fear, maybe. “Complications. I…” He doesn’t finish and sighs deeply.
“But you’ve had operations before, right? You know the drill.”
“Yeah. Twenty-two.”
“Jesus!”
“Yep. There he is.”
She looks up. “Very funny. That’s a truckload of surgeries. You know what they say though, ‘twenty-third time’s the charm.’”
“Heh. Yeah.” He pauses and bows his head. “Sometimes wonder what the point is.”
“Fixing you.”
He gives her a duh look. “May never end, though.”
“I really wonder how you do it,” she says, glancing at the false bottom of his right sneaker. “All that you do. With your … gusto and, like, grace.”
He shrugs. “Secret is … gummy bears.”
“Imagine that.” She could sit here forever, with Moony’s hand in hers. It’s amazing. Like Kentucky sings, “Looking for grace. I know her face.”
He adds softly, “Just get … tired out sometimes.”
“Well, yeah.” She gently squeezes his hand. He squeezes back. “Are you scared?” she asks softly.
“No.” He lets go and pushes his hair out of his face. “Just of clowns. Scare the crap outta me.”
She broke their connection somehow and the loss of it aches. But she laughs. “That’s how I feel about ventriloquists’ dummies. But I’m not a big clown fan either. What can I do? Bring you flowers?”
He gives her another duh look. “Gummy bears.”
“You got it.”
TWENTY-THREE
Mom taps on Summer’s door.
“Darling? It’s almost two o’clock.”
“Mmmf?” She sits up as Mom opens her door. “You’re home.”
“We got back late last night. Lovely trip. But we—I’ve been invited to Verbier for a few days.”
“Huh?”
“It’s my friend Françoise. Her husband just left her and the kids. For his twenty-two year-old mistress,” she huffs. “So I thought I should be with her. I’ll be back Wednesday.”
“’Kay, I’m up.” She rubs her eyes and looks around. Thankfully the vodka bottle is back in her armoire. “Whatever, Mom. It’s fine.”
“When was your last appointment with Dr. Garnier?”
Summer can’t think. “Um, last week? I missed it because of school.” She hasn’t gone since the second one.
“I just haven’t received a bill from her lately. And she tried to call me the other day.”
“Uh, can we discuss this later? I’m not awake.”
“Fine.” Mom’s heels tip-tap down the hall.
She should just tell the truth, that she doesn’t really like Dr. Garnier and she doesn’t want to go to a French shrink. But then Mom will insist on finding another one and on and on it will go. It’s better this way.
She checks her phone for any messages. None.
Of course, she was wishing to see something from Moony. Best to make believe she wasn’t. She should find out more about his operation, too.
The tablet, books, and notebooks on her desk tower menacingly.
She pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt and heads out to buy cigarettes.
At the neighborhood tabac, she orders an espresso and downs it. Outside gapes the entrance to the Métro. She used to love the trains. She needs to get over her trainophobia. She’ll go back to her work after a brief excursion, some walking.
She counts breaths and steps as she descends and reads and recites the ads. Breathing in for a count of six, and out the same way, she makes it down to the first platform. A train pulls in right away, and, heart pounding, Summer steps on and beelines for a seat.
She’s light-headed and concentrating so hard on her breathing, it takes her a while to notice the guy across from her. His khaki pants are alarmingly greasy. His long gray beard hangs woolly and wild and his paint-peelingly strong body odor hits her like a slap. He’s talking to himself. That explains why she got a seat near him.
When he pulls out a screw top bottle of red wine, she holds up her flask.
“Santé,” he says and drinks, smiling at her. To her health.
“À la tienne,” she responds, reaching across the aisle to clink containers. And to yours.
Whatever his sad story, this man survives. He doesn’t care what others think. His eyes have kindness in them, despite everything. He’s cool and probably not afraid of trains. “Everyone should drink on the Métro,” she says loudly. A regal African woman in a chartreuse rolled headdress frowns at her and the bum.
That wasn’t so bad, she thinks as she gets off at Les Halles, the old food market area, now an urban park and underground mall. Above ground in the quickly failing daylight and light snow flurries, she sits on a concrete wall near the dark cathedral, Saint-Eustache. She can make out a couple of unremarkable gargoyles, warding off evil. As if. Skateboarders on walkways zoom and dodge the sculptures, gaggles of Goths, racaille, and pigeons.
An old lady in a wheelchair with no coat or socks is parked by the entrance to the church. A thin blanket covers her that even from a distance Summer can tell is dirty. Poor lady must be so cold.
A lone tough kid, fourteen or fifteen, is skateboarding near the wheelchair and keeps looking at the old lady. Summer rises to head over, afraid that he’s going to rob the woman. He jumps off his board right in front of the chair and peels off his gold down parka. The old lady pulls back in alarm. He holds the jacket out to her. It hangs there until she finally nods. He helps her put it on, then her bony hand pats him on the arm. The lady smiles and clasps her hands to her chest as the kid skates off coatless beneath a blazing orange sky.
A surge of sadness chokes Summer at this surprising act of kindness. Why? This old, poor lady … where does she live and who watches out for her? And the bum on the train. Life has to suck for him, too. But he drank to her health. He’s unbowed.
How can they stand it? The cruelty and horribleness of the world. Of other people. And yet, that kid just gave the old woman his coat.
To keep her going.
She can’t bear it.
<
br /> Moony is kind to her. He puts up with her shit. He even seems to like being with her.
Kindness is like hope. It feeds hope.
Which just keeps us around to suffer more, she thinks, anger rising.
It’s not worth it. Why does she keep trying so hard to force a life that will never work?
She stands and scans the crowd. This is supposedly a place to get drugs. She doesn’t have the energy to pursue it but is open to the possibility.
As she pulls out her flask again and takes a deep draw, a tall guy in a black leather coat with his back to her catches her eye. He’s talking to a young Goth guy and they’re off by themselves.
Summer’s pulse races. It’s Kurt. His hair, height, and posture are unmistakable.
He has his arm draped around the guy’s shoulder and they appear to be deep in heartfelt conversation.
And here he is again, in the middle of a metro area of over four million. What the hell?
Kurt and the guy walk away. She jumps up. Now she’ll stalk him.
Maybe he’s gay. She thinks of him nibbling her earlobe. Or at least bisexual. It would be a relief if he were gay, she realizes, and not trying to … hook up with her But she knows he is. Trying to possess her.
They skirt the church and the crowds, then walk up a pathway into a small grassy area. A thoroughfare runs beneath. She stands down on the street by a twenty-four-hour brasserie that is brightly lit and smells like sauerkraut and shellfish. People walk in and out. She slips around the corner, so she can watch from the shadows. It’s deserted where Kurt and the guy are.
The two of them step over the low fence on the path and walk to a grassy edge. Darkness has descended, but streetlights from the road below illuminate them as they lean over to look down at diesel trucks and compact French cars rumbling underneath. The guy’s shorter than Kurt and has no coat, just a thin black jacket, heavy black boots, and lots of chains. Kurt gestures at the street below. The guy shakes his head. Then Kurt pulls the guy’s black spike-hair-framed face to him and kisses him on the lips.
The guy says, “Je t’aime toujours, Michel.”
I love you always, Michel? Maybe she misunderstood. The guy’s expression is sort of desperate and sad. Maybe Kurt just wanders the city picking up people using different names. What a slime bag.
Kurt lights a cigarette, turns and heads down the path out of the park to the street. The guy stares after him. Kurt veers in Summer’s direction. She dashes behind a parked van.
Okay, maybe it’s just a friend.
He walks right past her, trailing cigarette smoke, back into the city streets. She leans against the side of the van and wills her breathing to slow.
A jarring screech of brakes and honking cars blares from the underpass. She springs back to the corner for a line of sight on the guy, but he’s gone.
Her feet are frozen to the asphalt. Heaviness that can only be rapid-forming ice climbs through her legs and trunk. She didn’t actually see it, but there was no place else to go. That guy had to have just stepped off the overpass. Because Kurt walked away from him? No, surely not, but something very weird is going on.
Even though she can’t feel her feet, she sprints past the brasserie to the boulevard and the taxi stand. She leaps into the first one. As they speed off in the winter evening toward the other side of town, flashing blue lights pass them going the other way, trailing that sound of French sirens, weee-ooo, weee-ooo, weee-ooo.
TWENTY-FOUR
The apartment is dark and quiet when Summer gets back. Mom’s gone. In her room, Summer pours a tall vodka and gulps it down. The guy was there. He disappeared over a big commotion on the street, right below where he’d been standing two seconds before. And then sirens. There was nowhere else he could have gone, but down.
By choice.
“What is wrong with this city?” she bellows. “Why is everybody offing themselves?”
And Kurt was there.
Why has he been twice now near the scene of—She takes another deep quaff of vodka. He couldn’t have known that she would be at Les Halles. She didn’t know herself. It was random.
It was like she was drawn there. Pulled like a magnet.
Just stop.
She’s being ridiculous. Overactive imagination.
Everything’s fine.
While she’s at it she fills her flask and takes a few slugs. The alcohol burns, then soothes and unclenches her. Antifreeze.
There’s only a little left in the bottle so she bottoms up, too, for good luck. The vodka is helping. Her dear bosom friend, Wodka. She should make a documentary about it. Now she’ll settle down.
She goes into the bathroom to pee, and then afterward, checks herself in the full-length mirror in her room. Her skin looks kind of blue. She is a little thinner—are those not ribs?—same big butt. She startles when she hears a loud buzz.
Huh? The outside intercom. She jogs unevenly down the hall that’s tilting just a bit. Through the viewfinder she sees Moony. Yay! Oh, phlegm, she completely forgot he was coming for tutoring. She wouldn’t have drunk so much. Shit on a stick. But it’s wonderful he’s here. She can handle it.
She buzzes him in the building, then fumbles with the lock that’s all sticky, throws open the door, and leans hard against the hall wall. Takes forever for the prehistoric iron cage elevator to arrive.
“So glad to seeeee you!” She throws her arms around Moony and kisses him moistly on each cheek.
Moony looks surprised, then says evenly, “You’re hammered.”
She starts to say something but burps instead. “’Scuse me.” It is hitting her kind of hard and fast, but she’s not so far gone that she’s not worried what Moony will think. ’Cause she really likes him. A lot! She giggles.
He blinks slowly. She takes a breath and says, “Noo, not that much.” She tries hard not to slur her words, but she feels them sliding out from between her teeth and tongue in misshapen, elongated ways. “Jusss a little. Shoulda had it in grape juice.” She’s consumed at least a quarter bottle of some funky Romanian vodka. All at once. Even for her that’s a lot. “Grapefruit juice.”
Moony sighs and puts his coat back on. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says slowly and clearly.
“Nooooo.” She grabs him by the shirt. “Dohn leave. Please. Whooaa.” She loses her balance and crashes into him. “Sorry.” He helps right her, but he looks so grumpy.
“That Goth guy. Jumped off the overpass. Jumped, Moony. I liiiike you so. Much. But I’m scared a … know whad I mean?” she says, throwing her arms around him. “How ’bout a hug?” He hugs her back, to her drunken surprise. He’s also trying to help hold her level.
They tilt, and then crumple to the floor. He winces.
“Ohhh shit. You okay?”
“Fine,” he coughs, but she realizes she’s glommed on to his weak arm and shoulder. She lets go and sprawls back onto the Persian carpet where it’s surprisingly comfortable.
“Some tea,” he says. He pulls himself up by holding on to the gilded marble console.
She tries in vain to focus on him. The foyer is tilting fully now, starting to spin. “Wish you coulda met my dad. I’m jus’ like him…”
He puts his hand on his hip and stares down at her. “Summer,” he says firmly. “Get up.” He gives her his left hand. “Hot tea.”
Her roiling stomach demands her attention. “Ohhhh. Notta hampy capper.”
“I need to go.”
“NOOO!” she bellows. About the only thing she can now focus on is that she doesn’t want him to leave. And that something is really wrong. “Pleeez staaay.” She rolls over and pushes herself to her hands and knees, but then crashes sideways to the floor. “Huh.” She tries again, then realizes molten vodka is coming up the pike. “Bleehhhh uhhh gonna be sick…”
And then she is. All over Mom’s precious carpet and the parquet floor.
“Wooo.” Still on her hands and knees, she holds still, to make sure nothing else is coming. There isn�
�t anything else. “Splashage,” she observes.
Moony appears with some paper towels and a dish towel. “I feel bedder,” she assures him, although it’s an exaggeration. “Moony, Moooony, no, dohn clean up I’ll do later. Ouaiba’ll help.”
Camus trots down the hall to sniff the barf, his nail tips tapping on the parquet floor. “Outta here, rat dog,” she yells. He shows his underbite and then retreats.
Meanwhile Moony spreads the paper towels over the mess and wipes her face. Then he holds out his good hand.
She takes it and he pulls up all her weight, throws his arm around her, and pushes her down the hall toward her room. “Where is Ouaiba?” he demands.
“Up stairs … six floor. Intercom thingy—” she says, pointing up.
He practically carries her into her room and plops her onto her bed. He takes her shoes off, then puts the metal waste basket beside her. He also puts her toothbrush glass full of water on the bedside table, but she doesn’t see that until she wakes up hours later.
* * *
Miraculously the mess is cleaned up when she staggers out of her room at 4:30 A.M. Although that intricate, pale carpet will never be the same.
Summer feels like a giant dried dog turd with a mouth and stomach full of charcoal briquettes and a tight crown of barbed wire. She completely deserves the pain. Welcomes it. She knocked Moony down because she couldn’t stand up straight. Then she puked all over him. “Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid,” she mutters, her eyes and fists clenched tight. “Oh. My. God.” Why on earth did she pound down so much vodka? She of all people knows how to hold her liquor.
Despite the hour, she texts him:
My EXTREME bad. I’m so so sorry. Thanks for being such a good friend.
No reply.
She shuffles into the living room and grabs Mom’s vodka. She only needs a tiny bit. Hair of the dog and all that. She freezes. The floor in the hall creaked. Then she remembers Mom is gone. Whew.
The pounding in her temples is at a disco tempo, the sickness in her stomach is swelling. She closes her eyes. No. She’s got to stop this. She is so not in control of this party. As much as she’d like to think she is. She clanks the bottle down.