by Ann Jacobus
Summer keeps a neutral face. She won’t acknowledge the apology, and since Moony said the same thing, it’s the second time in one day she’s heard that. But she appreciates it.
Back in her room, with a credit card, Summer buys an e-ticket on Air France for a flight to San Francisco early on Saturday the twenty-first, in six days. Somehow, she’ll get through this next, last week of school, honor Dad’s anniversary by passing her two finals on the seventeenth, and then grab her passport and just partir. Her big suitcase is in the cave in the basement. She doesn’t want to go down there, it creeps her out and who knows who could be lurking. So she empties an old duffel bag filled with tennis racquets, packs a few things, and puts it under her bed. Then she sits down and tries to study.
FORTY-FIVE
On Monday, Summer drags herself out of bed and calls a taxi to take her to school for her European History final exam. Other than a brief, “Hope you’re feeling OK. Good luck on finals,” text to reassure Moony, she keeps her phone turned off. When she sees the questions, she knows she’ll probably flunk it. Just like a bad dream. She may pass her trigonometry test, thanks to Moony.
As Summer is leaving, she passes by her English class and the teacher sees her.
“Summer?” She motions her in. “You were absent when I handed back the Dante papers. I have yours here. Do you check your PAIS e-mails?” She hands it to Summer.
“I guess not enough.” Summer tries to smile at her teacher. “Hmm. ‘D plus,’” she reads aloud.
Ms. Chang tilts her head. “You had some interesting observations, but it was supposed to be three times that length for starters. I’m afraid you’re failing this course. There’s still the final on Thursday. Do you want to discuss it?”
“Uh, not really. Not at all in fact,” Summer says, crumpling the red-marked paper. “Gotta run, thank you, Ms. Chang.” Run. That’s a laugh. She can barely lift each foot.
Okay, maybe she won’t be able to salvage the semester.
That familiar cold in her middle sinks heavily all the way through her. She did try. More than she has for years, for sure. Just not enough. Time or effort. She’ll have to deal with all that when she gets to the US. She can figure out another way to graduate, and then to get into some university somewhere. To make Mom happy anyway.
She trudges out of the room and clips a girl in the hall, causing her to drop a big leather bag. It’s skinny, beautiful Jacqueline.
“Summer!” she says.
“Hi, sorry. Just escaping Ms. Chang.”
“What?” Jackie’s wearing a yellow wool jacket with white fringe and a short black wool skirt. She has big, bright gold hoops in her pierced ears.
“Take your earbuds out,” Summer mouths and points.
Jackie does. “I never see you around.” She slings the bag back over her shoulder.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Aren’t you a Kentucky Morris groupie? Sad news about him, huh?”
“What?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Her eyes are wide with dismay.
“Heard what?”
“He died last night. Hanged himself while in Bangkok. The Triage the Darkness Tour. He left a suicide song and everything.”
“You’re—you’re joking.”
“No, I wish.”
Summer clutches her middle and bows. “Oh, no.”
The avalanche has slammed over her. It’s swirling and hurling her, and there’s not enough air.
“Are you okay?”
If the brilliant, talented, successful, and beloved Kentucky doesn’t think life is worth living, then what is she supposed to do? Like in cartoons when Wile E. Coyote gets frozen, one little tap breaks him into a thousand pieces.
“Shattered,” she says.
“Yeah, I know, right? Hard to believe that someone with so much going for them would take their own life,” says Jackie, twirling her hair around her finger.
Summer mumbles, “Actually it’s not.” If people knew the truth, they would say that about Dad. People said it about the star high school basketball player in Little Rock who shot himself. Almost everybody who commits suicide had so much going for them.
“Well, I know what happened. To cause him to do it. They say he just broke up with Lou Lou Banal.”
Summer contemplates scuff marks on the waxed floor then looks up. “It’s not just one thing. He’s been thinking about it for a long time.” She pauses as bits of his lyrics play in her head. “A long time.”
Jackie blinks at Summer, pauses two beats. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Now?”
“About Moony.” Jackie’s heavy perfume curls around Summer’s head, making her sniff.
“Okay.”
“You and Moony have been hanging out, outside of school some.”
“Yeah?” Summer flicks at her backpack strap. Kentucky’s song “Come and Go with Me” is playing in her mind and it’s hard to concentrate. Where’s Jackie headed with this?
“He likes you a lot, you know,” Jackie says in a soft voice.
“Uh…”
“Do you like him?” Jackie fastens her large brown eyes on Summer’s. It’s so third grade.
“Of course I like him. He’s … my best friend.” People are filing around them in the hall, so they step closer to the lockers.
Jackie tosses her long shiny hair behind her. “I mean, you know, like, physically.”
“Did he ask you to ask me?” Summer demands. No way Moony would. Jackie’s being nosy. But Jackie’s looking out for him, too.
“You know him. He would never do that. He talks about you a lot. I just know.”
They stand there a few seconds while Summer doesn’t answer. She loves him, and yes, she does want him. She’d be so psyched to believe that what Jackie says is true. But it makes everything worse. Even if he hasn’t yet figured it out, she knows: she’s the most terrible thing that could possibly happen to him.
“So, do you?” she asks.
“No,” Summer says, touching her nose ring and closing her eyes. She hugs her notebook against her chest. “I do love him.” Jackie frowns like she thinks Summer’s lying. “It’s not because he’s … not perfect! It’s complicated and none of your business.” Now Jackie gives her a snotty, disdainful look. “What, do you want to jump his bones?” Summer demands, which she immediately regrets.
Jackie says coolly, “I already have.”
Summer opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
Jackie smiles. “It didn’t work out, but I care very much for him.”
“Oh, good for you.” Summer hates her.
Jackie narrows her eyes. “Don’t you dare lead him on, or even think about messing with his heart.” Then she pivots and marches away in her high-heeled boots.
“Or what?” Summer whispers.
FORTY-SIX
At home in her room that night, Summer tries to watch a movie. Thank god Mom’s gone because she doesn’t want to talk to or see anyone. She’s so exhausted, yet it’s hard to sit still. Moony keeps popping into her head, how Jackie said he loves and wants her. How she wants Moony, but how she can only deeply disappoint him.
She also can’t stop thinking about Kentucky Morris. She loves him, too. His music is mournful, sometimes angry or even just a tad whiny, but it transmits so clearly and beautifully to her that she’s not the only one. That he knows how she feels. And struggles. She cannot fathom that he checked out. Hanged himself. And abandoned her!
She does understand why he wanted to, though. Totally.
Then the truth of his decision hits home. He’s a brilliant guy. He hasn’t deserted her, he figured out the answer.
And led the way.
She’s not had anything to drink all day. She could just pour herself one modest shot of Mom’s Russian vodka. The desire is wrapped around her like a flipping two-hundred-pound chimpanzee.
She tries to ignore it for five minutes at a time, but then it sticks its long monkey fingers in her ears and mouth.
The apartment is dark and too cold, and she drapes her duvet around her.
The bell rings again, more insistent.
Summer’s pulse quickens. She tiptoes to the door and squints through the peephole.
It’s Kurt. Holding flowers.
“Hi,” she hears.
She backs away, her vision narrowing.
“Summer,” he says. “I know you’re there.”
“Go away!” she yells through the thick, painted wood.
“I feel terrible about our misunderstanding on Saturday. I’ve got something for you. I came directly here from the airport. Just flew in from Bangkok.”
Misunderstanding.
“Come on. Please open the door.”
She stands there for a dozen heartbeats. Can she run down to the other end of the apartment and barricade herself in her room? Call the police and explain her problem in French?
“What do you want?”
“I just want to be with you. You are the light of my soul. Please,” he repeats plaintively.
“You don’t have a soul,” she mutters. “And it’s, like, way too late to be making social visits.”
“Summer. Open the door and let me in.”
Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin, she thinks with no trace of humor.
“I’ll wait,” he says. “I’m very patient.”
“Fine. Knock yourself out.” She turns to go.
“It’s not me you should be worried about, ma belle poule,” says Kurt. “It’s you.”
She breathes in sharply. He knows.
“You know as well as I do that you are the one to be afraid of. I have the answer to all your problems.”
Summer leans her forehead against the smooth enameled door. Somehow Kurt understands what’s been in her mind for such a long time she can’t even remember when it started. What she’s been thinking about constantly lately. No, not thinking. Underneath thought.
Feeling.
Believing.
And for so long, denying.
The answer to all her problems.
She has nothing to lose. She closes her eyes and opens the door.
He hands her a truncated bouquet of tight chrysanthemum buds, dark red. He kisses her on both cheeks, as she lets the duvet drop to the floor. The scent of rotten garbage and a pale hint of cologne surround her. “I could use a drink,” he says.
Seeing his face reminds her of the last time she was with him. “W-what was that all about?” she demands, putting her hands on her hips, looking as pissed off as she can. “Chainsaw Chicks.”
“We’ve grown close. I want to be closer still. And you need to understand who’s in charge.”
“You’re not in charge,” Summer says.
“We’ll see.” He smiles. “I know what you want. You do, too.”
She looks down at the stained Persian carpet.
“My love,” he says, lifting her chin and gazing soulfully into her eyes. “Other than holding your hand, I won’t touch you again.”
The horrible thing is, she’s not sure she doesn’t want him to.
“Without your permission,” he adds.
She also knows he’s lying. “God knows I need a drink now,” she says. “You’re impossible to deal with sober.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” He takes off his leather jacket and tosses it on a chair in the foyer. He wears a loud red-and-black-checked shirt and a black tie.
Summer turns on a lamp in the main salon, grabs two brandy snifters and pours generous cognacs. The bottle says it’s twenty-five years old, but she already drank that and replaced it with more affordable stuff from Monoprix. Who can tell the difference?
“So to what do I owe this visit?” she asks, sitting on the couch across from him.
“I just missed you. Cheers. To decisions.” He’s on the opposite couch and holds his glass up.
“Cheers,” she says. She takes a big swig and immediately feels better. “Can I bum a cigarette?”
“Of course.” He pulls a pack of Gauloises out of his breast pocket and lights two. “Thanks.” She takes a deep drag.
He sips from his glass and makes a face. “No offense. This is shit cognac.”
Summer shrugs. “So what’s the answer to all my problems?”
“Me.”
“Ha. You said you had a present for me.”
He pats the spot next to him on the couch. Summer comes over but stays standing. From his jacket pocket he pulls a photocopied copy of an Arkansas Democrat newspaper clipping and hands it to her.
She holds it under the lamp. Grandpa and Dad stare back at her from the late nineties. She’s never seen this picture.
“Where did you get this?” She stubs her cigarette out in a silver ashtray.
“Off the Internet. I copied it at the American Library.”
SR. & JR. WALDO BARNES, CHICKEN KING AND CROWNED PRINCE, the headline reads, PURCHASE JIMMY RON SAUSAGE AND DAISY DAIRY FARMS FOR LARGEST FOOD CONGLOMERATE IN THE SOUTH. Grandpa is grinning and Dad looks young and sullen.
“There were articles in all the major media,” says Kurt, “including The Wall Street Journal. No picture there, just a drawing of your grandpa’s large head.”
“My dad looks … melancholy, doesn’t he?”
“What a terrific word. He was.”
“How do you know?”
“I knew your dad. You’re so much like him.” He blinks like a reptile.
“He killed himself, you know,” she says, as she takes another slug of cognac. “How could you possibly know my dad?”
“I’m older than I look,” he says, smiling. “I told you. I know a lot of people.”
She puts her hand to her cheek. “You were in the hospital that night, weren’t you?”
“Briefly. Outside his room. You and I made eye contact.”
An early snowflake. An encounter, a thought that she froze and blew away. She suspected, even then, the truth about Dad. “So why are you hanging out with me?”
“I love you.”
She chokes on her drink. “Oh, right!”
“Like a fat child loves chocolate ice cream.” He’s referring to her, of course.
She gets up to refresh her cognac. The light goes out. Next thing she knows he’s all over her like white on rice. Black on tar.
He kisses her, long and deep and hard. She can’t breathe. “You are mine,” he whispers, clutching her tightly. His strength is frightening.
“I guess,” she says, gasping, trying to pry herself from his clawlike grip.
“You guess?”
“Well, what does that mean exactly? Let go of me a minute. Please.” To her surprise, he does. So unpredictable.
“Truth or dare?” he asks.
“Are you serious?”
He nods eagerly and bounces down on the couch next to her. “Choose.”
“Uh, truth?”
“Ask me who you are,” he commands.
“What? That’s not how it works.”
“Just do it,” he growls.
“Who am I?” she whispers.
“You know why you’re alone, don’t you?”
“Wait. That’s another question. I—”
“You’re worthless. An accident on earth.”
The room goes still.
“A spoiled, lazy, hate-and-anger-filled loser. We all wonder why you get so mad at everyone else, when it’s yourself you should be mad at.”
She says nothing.
“No one, not even your mother, not even your ridiculously upbeat crippled friend, can love you. You’re an embarrassing burden to your family. Have been, even before you pulled that pot of Chef Boyardee on your chubby head.”
She nods. She’s been a disappointment as long as she can remember. It’s weird, incredible even, how he knows and will say o
ut loud the deep down truth. That everyone tries to pretend isn’t so. It’s strangely freeing.
“You already know that all the money in the world won’t make you worth something.”
“I know.”
“Now it’s time you take ‘Dare.’ You can make it all go away.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that. Like your dad did.”
“Do you think … he’d want that?” she asks.
“Dearest Summer,” he says and caresses her cheek. “He did love you, more than anything. Of course he would want that. What’s best for you. Don’t forget. Things will never, ever get better. Ending it now is best.”
Summer nods.
“And you’ll leave the world a better place without you.”
“Yeah.”
“Your little friend. You’ll destroy him, you know. Can you imagine loving you?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“And, can you stand this forever?”
“I can’t stand it for another day.”
“You finally fully understand it’s hopeless, don’t you? All the fresh starts in the world won’t make a difference. That idea about working with children? Ridiculous. What a terrible, negative influence you would be.”
“I know.”
“So come with me.”
“I was going to San Francisco,” she mumbles.
“To get away from me. But you stupid, stupid girl, you know that’s not possible.”
She asks almost inaudibly, “So, where will we go?”
“Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.” He takes her hand in his and whispers in her ear, “Trust me?”
He stares at her that way he does. So earnest, so deep into her soul. She is the question. He is the answer.
“I will love you forever. And you’re ready. To take the next step. The big one.”
The dense weight of all that has been building up, piling on her, since the beginning of time, has led to this night. “I guess it’s been coming for a while,” she admits.
His voice softens and he touches her cheek. “Deciding is one thing. But the hardest part is carrying through. I am here for you, my love. Let’s seal the deal with a kiss.”
“Kiss” being an inadequate metaphor. Like a striking rattlesnake, he yanks her to him. His shocking strength overwhelms her. She’s smothered and blinded, lost, heart thudding, struggling. She wanted this, right? She holds on, as he almost squeezes the life out of her, suddenly so much larger than she. A jolt of pain from her catacomb-hurt-rib and the big purple and yellow bruise there radiates throughout her body as he pushes her roughly to the floor and tears at her jeans.