Romancing the Dark in the City of Light

by Ann Jacobus

  “What? Yes, I do.”

  “You need help with drinking.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Moony’s bright brown eyes are like the searchlights on the top of the Eiffel Tower. He knows how Summer is doing at school. He only knows the tip of the iceberg as far as her enthusiasm for brain-altering substances goes, although she did splash barf on his shoes.

  His tidy room warms. Summer doesn’t mind lying to Mom. Or to herself. But she can’t to Moony. And strangely, she doesn’t mind him saying she needs help, despite the fact that her cheeks are radiating heat. She takes a breath. “You think?” She tries to sound sarcastic, but it doesn’t work.

  “Do you want help?” is the next question, all relaxed and easy. He touches the underside of her wrist. For a half-Arab kid, he has real American directness.

  She shifts, crossing and uncrossing her legs as the bed squeaks. “What are you? Saint Moony, peer counselor?”

  He waits patiently.

  “I suppose it’s a, uh … possibility,” she says, smoothing the green stripes on his bedspread.

  She’s snowed scores of teachers, counselors, and doctors. But what does she think? Like a tire someone’s let the air out of, the puffed-up-ness of her pride softens.

  Help. Help. Help. She repeats it over and over in her mind until it loses its meaning, and becomes some mysterious Dutch participle. What does it mean exactly? Allowing someone who cares to do things that support her. Moony already is. Maybe allowing someone to get close. Moony already is. Pretty much, anyway.

  Admitting the lies she tells herself? Yeah. Most likely.

  If she doesn’t get it, and soon, it will cost her a fortune.

  Literally.

  She sighs. Hard to get worked up about that.

  Getting out of the deep, dark rut she’s been in for so long would be freaking hard. But what about making choices for herself and what she wants, instead of what everyone else wants? That might be worth working for.

  What does she want?

  Moony’s friendship. She glances into his eyes.

  That’s really all.

  He’s watching her. She curls a page of her notebook in a tight little roll and clears her throat. “Yes. Yes, I think I do.”

  Pandora alights in her mind again. The illustrated bedraggled little fairy Hope left in the box. Who keeps humans around to suffer all those ills. But maybe it’s not a wimpy little fairy like she always thought. Maybe it’s one of those killer fairies with blinding strength. Hope with some horsepower behind her might be just what she needs.

  Now Moony leans forward and takes her hand. His touch is warm and so right and reassuring her throat tightens. He doesn’t let go.

  “What about an AA meeting?” he asks, looking toward his bookcase.

  She pulls her hand back. “What about it?”

  “In English. Sometimes at the American church.”

  He swivels in his desk chair to his computer and types fast with his good hand. Two seconds later he has the Paris Alcoholics Anonymous Web site, which lists all the meetings, in English, every day, all over the city.

  “One there tomorrow night,” he says. “19:00.”

  “Let me get this straight,” says Summer. “You’re saying you would come with me.” She gnaws her pinky nail. “Because I have no interest in going by myself.”

  “Yes.”

  She stands abruptly, then sits again. “Well. I … um, okay then. We could check it out. If it’s horrible, we can leave, right?”

  “Pick you up at 18:30.”

  “Six thirty. Crap. Okay.”

  * * *

  Ms. Butterfield invites Summer to stay for dinner and to call her “Karen,” which Summer accepts. It’s lasagna, Moony’s favorite from Picard, the frozen food store, along with a lamb’s lettuce salad and Oranginas. Summer makes a big effort to eat and to hold up her end of the dinnertime conversation about Mars exploration, REM sleep, autism, and French labor law. Not one mention of someone’s appearance, something they did wrong, what school they went to or their pedigree or lack thereof, intrudes. It’s all interesting and normal, and Moony and his mom seem to enjoy each other’s company. She wonders what she would be like if she’d grown up with Karen as her mother.

  Karen has a generous glass of red wine but doesn’t offer them any. When Karen gets up and Moony’s not looking, Summer seriously contemplates taking a quick glug. Jesus, she thinks. That’s truly pathetic.

  When Moony double-cheek kisses Summer good-bye, he pulls her in for an extra-long hug. She involuntarily goes stiff and feels his shoulder blade jutting against her hand at a strange angle, like he has a metal can opener glued under his shirt. A desire to pull away and run out the door flits through her tense muscles. He holds her gently and then she relaxes against him and rests her cheek on his broad shoulder. Breathes in his wheaty-ness and the yum smell of that lime shampoo, his body so warm and solid against hers.

  It feels like home. She and Moony twinned, a zygotic cell just split, at the center of Paris, and the world, and the universe.

  The buff fairy Hope break-dances in her heart, with acrobatic leaps and rolls. She can be all right. She can get her life on track. Moony’s got her back.

  * * *

  The world seems so right, she takes the uncrowded Métro, without incident other than shallow breathing. She proudly walks to Mom’s apartment in the drizzle. Her damp hair flaps her face.

  There she is again, the corner prostitute. Wearing a short vinyl skirt, a crocheted yellow and pink muffler, and gripping a black umbrella. Summer crosses the street in order to walk by her.

  This time Summer says, “Salut.” Her attempt at Hey, what’s up. She doesn’t slow down and tries to sound casual.

  Then she realizes it isn’t the same woman. And this one’s obviously thinking, Cut the crap ugly-ass, honky rich-girl American. Who do you think you are? In French, of course.

  Summer studies the sidewalk and picks up her pace.

  She leans heavily against the teak panels in her building’s coffin-sized elevator as it ascends. What is it about bums and prostitutes? Dad became a bum, more or less. He just had enough money to stay off the streets. What about the ladies, though? Why does she think and worry about them?

  Having money warps and separates people. So does having none. The Buddha was a rich prince who gave up everything material, and then found enlightenment. And purpose. Jesus hung out with prostitutes and lepers. He certainly had direction.

  She could give all the money away if she gets her inheritance. Or most of it. What would that woman she just passed do with a million dollars? Or maybe it’s too late for her now. What would she have done if she and Summer were switched at birth? She might be a flipping Busybody Without Borders.

  Then she gets it. That’s the only thing that separates her from the streets, and probably having to sell herself to survive, is money. What else could she do? Show up every day for work at a fast-food place? Drive a UPS truck? Telephone sales? Hardly. So far, she can’t even handle high school. If a pimp supplied her with enough alcohol and drugs, she’d be good to go.

  Where are these hookers from? Probably not even France. Probably sold by their families, and held against their will. They have to do what they’re doing to survive.

  What’s hard to imagine is wanting to survive that bad.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The next day, Friday, during lunch, Summer trudges over to the lower school to Karen’s classroom. The wet-wool smell of kids’ coats hanging near the door and traces of lemon-scented bleach envelop her. She closes her eyes and she’s in her old elementary school hallway in Little Rock, standing with Dad, showing him her tempera portrait of their cat, Alma. It hangs for all to see. Dad holds her hand and beams at her, proud.

  She hasn’t drawn or painted anything since ninth grade, and she used to do it a lot. Maybe she should again.

  Summer raps on the door and sticks her head in. The third-graders are all bent over their desks writing furiously.
Whoa—nothing more sobering than two-dozen eight-year-olds. What happens if they all decide to riot at the same time?

  Karen looks up and smiles warily at Summer. Abandoning the pile of papers she’s marking, she comes out into the hall.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” Summer says. “Isn’t it lunchtime for them?”

  “They already had it.”

  “Are they taking a test?” Their concentration is so intense.

  “No, they’re writing stories.”

  “Oh. That’s good.” Summer focuses on the scuffed toes of her boots.

  “My lesson plan is probably not why you came by,” Karen prompts her.

  “Uh, I wanted to thank you for dinner.”

  “You’re most welcome,” she says. “I hope you’ll join us again.”

  “Yeah, for sure.” There’s another pause. “I wanted to ask, what’s up with Moony’s—uh, Munir’s operation? Is he all right?”

  Karen leans into the classroom, and satisfied the kids are behaving, turns back. “Nothing that unusual. But he’s been having a hard time lately.”

  “What’s wrong?” Summer asks.

  “What isn’t? There were so many fractures, so much internal organ damage.”

  “Is his … life in danger?”

  Karen takes a deep breath in through her nose and crosses her arms. “No more than it ever has been, although any operation has risks. He’s just worn out. Feeling weaker. And that makes him—us—a little nervous.”

  “What about that cough?”

  “Oh, that’s just a bronchial infection. I shouldn’t say ‘just,’ but relatively speaking it’s not a big concern.”

  “Good. Is he in pain? From like, other stuff?”

  She grimaces like she’s in pain. “He’s amazed all the medical personnel he’s ever come in contact with,” she says. “His ability to walk and function as well as he does is a miracle. They put his chances of surviving that accident at less than five percent.”

  “Wow.”

  “But he has so many complications, so many problems. And yes, he deals with pain pretty much constantly.” She stares at the green and red construction paper holly bunches on the bulletin board across the hall, sighs, then looks back at Summer. “He just won’t give in to it,” she says with admiration. “I’ve been trying to get him to slow down for years. It’s the only reason I agreed to that stupid scooter. It’s a lot easier for him than public transportation.”

  “He has a scooter?”

  “His dad recently sent the money for it,” she says with her jaw set. “He spreads himself too thin for an able-bodied kid, let alone someone with his health problems.” She pauses. “You should see what you can do with him.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t tell him anything.”

  Karen chuckles. “Anyway, we’re hoping this next operation will relieve some of his latest complications, and some pain.”

  Maybe it has to do with his bowels or something. If it were a hip replacement or heart reconstruction, they would just say so.

  Karen moves toward the door. “I need to get back in there.” She pauses, then says, “Want to come in and say hi to the kids?”

  Summer widens her eyes in panic.

  “They love Munir.”

  “Of course they do.” Summer nods. “Okay. Just for a moment. You’re not going anywhere, right?”

  Karen’s already in front of the twenty-some-odd desks. “Class? Time’s up. Pencils down.”

  The children oblige.

  “I’d like you to say hello to our guest, Miss Barnes.”

  “Um, Summer’s fine.”

  “Hi, Miss Barnes,” say the kids mostly in unison.

  A girl with pigtails shoots her hand up.

  “Yes, Anna?”

  “Are you a teacher?” she asks Summer.

  “No, I’m a student here. In the high school.” All eyes are on her. It’s unnerving but they’re filled with wonder and interest and excitement. She hopes it’s contagious.

  “Is it hard?”

  Summer laughs. “Funny you should ask. It’s a little hard lately because I wasn’t doing my homework. If you miss learning something one day, it makes things harder the next day. Right?”

  An African-American girl with braids waves her hand. Karen nods at her.

  “Like you can’t do division if you don’t do multiplication.”

  “Exactly,” says Summer.

  Another boy raises his hand and blurts out, “Ms. Butterfield, can I read my story? Can I? Can I?” He wears a school bus–yellow polo shirt.

  Karen says, “How about the first paragraph, Jack? Remember we talked about paragraphs yesterday.”

  “Okay!” He stands, smiles shyly at Summer, then recites, “‘The Robot Hamster.’ One night I heard loud noises coming from the basement.” He pauses. “But we don’t have a basement.”

  “Oooh,” and “Yeah!” yell all the kids.

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “That is awesome,” says Summer. She can’t stop grinning.

  Karen holds up her finger and the class goes silent. “Maybe Miss Barnes can come back another day.”

  “I’d love to,” says Summer. “Bye, kids. Thank you.” The kids’ voices, their enthusiasm, the bright colors—she has a shocking sensation of floating with the current. Not flailing, or drowning. What would it be like to be in charge of a room full of these creatures? A flipping circus. But cool.

  Karen follows her into the hall.

  “Well,” Summer says, “that was way better than I expected.”

  “Do you have younger siblings?” Karen asks.

  “No siblings.” Not for lack of wishing for them though.

  “You’re a natural,” Karen tells her. She clears her throat. “Uh, Summer?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your friendship means a lot to Munir. Things that mean a lot to him, mean a lot to me.” She grins awkwardly.

  Summer nods. “It means a lot to me, too.” Karen has no idea.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Friday night, as promised, Moony chauffeurs Summer to the American church in the seventh. He picks her up on his green Vespa that’s specially rigged so he can do more with his left hand and foot. He makes her wear his new, sleek black helmet, and he wears a scuffed, old white one. She rides behind, leaning into him. He accelerates over cobblestones and weaves like a madman in and out of the Renaults, Peugeots, Citroëns, pedestrians, green garbage trucks, and buses. Summer’s legs are shaky when they finally arrive.

  “Holy crap. After that, I really need a drink,” she says. She hasn’t had any alcohol since her one gulp in the PAIS bathroom yesterday, and does not feel well.

  He grins.

  “Stop smiling. You’re a closet sadist. Okay, what am I supposed to do?” she asks. It’s not just the ride that’s making her shaky. “It is in English, right? Do I have to say why I’m here or how much I drink or something?”

  “Yep. Saw a movie. Use first names. Then just listen.”

  “Hi, I’m Razorback. I’m an alcoholic?”

  “Hi, Razorback,” he says in a falsetto.

  She tries not to smile.

  The AA meeting is upstairs in a large room with creaky wooden floors. She and Moony are holding their helmets. An older woman in a blue blazer comes over to greet them. “Hi, I’m Lila. Are you visiting?”

  “Yes,” Moony says.

  “Welcome to Paris, then. Help yourself to coffee and cookies.”

  “I’m not a tourist. I live here,” huffs Summer. Moony quickly steers her over to the coffee, then they sit down.

  Summer nibbles a butter cookie, hoping it will help her stomach. Dad never attended an AA meeting, and the whole setup sounds a little fishy.

  The room fills until there are about thirty attendees. They start on time, but people keep coming in: twenty-year-olds, eighty-year-olds, businessmen, tourists, a mother with a baby, middle-aged women, fashionistas, druggie types. Lila leads the meeting. They go around
the room and everyone says, “Hi, my name is ______. I’m an alcoholic.” Then as Moony demonstrated, everyone else responds, “Hi, ______!”

  Moony says slower than everyone else, “Hi, my name is Moony. I’m here to learn.”

  “Hi, Moony!” everyone choruses.

  Lila says, “Wonderful. This is an open meeting and all are welcome.” She glances at Summer. “And all that is needed for a closed meeting is a desire to stop drinking.”

  Summer says, “Hi, my name is Summer.” After an awkward pause, she says, “Period.”

  People say out of unison and a little halfheartedly, “Hi, Summer.”

  “Liked me better,” he whispers to her.

  “Shut up and learn,” she whispers back.

  Summer concentrates on listening, and twirls her nose ring. They talk about steps, serenity, “focus on the drinking, not the thinking,” “just for today,” and of course, “one day at a time.” Then people share long-winded stories or whatever their current thoughts are. Some have thick accents, mostly French, one Russian, and are difficult to understand.

  It lasts an interminable hour and Summer squirms. It’s boring and she doesn’t have a problem like these people do, or at least not one she can’t handle herself. At one point, Moony reaches over and takes her sweaty hand. She’ll just enjoy the time with him.

  Finally, everyone stands up, hold hands, and says the serenity prayer. It’s over. People linger and chat.

  “That’s it?” Summer says. “Aren’t they going to tell me how to stop drinking?”

  Lila, nearby and moving chairs, says, “You just do. Then you come here to keep on not drinking.”

  “Just stop. Just like that.”

  “Take the first step. Admit that you’re ‘powerless over alcohol and that your life has become unmanageable.’”

  “Well, what if it hasn’t?” Summer asks. Moony looks up at the ceiling.

  Lila shrugs, lugging a chair to the back. “Tant mieux.”

  “So much the better’?” Summer asks Moony.

  He sighs. “Yeah.”

  Lila comes back for another chair and says, “There’s a youth AA meeting over in the first, also on Friday evenings. You might visit them.”