Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (7 page)

Moony asks, “Know the game?”

“Yeah, I played until I was eleven.” And her friend Katie was a nationally ranked midfielder in tenth grade. Supposedly, Katie
and
her boyfriend Justin showed up as freshmen at Dartmouth in September.

“What position?” He pops gummy bears into his mouth.

“Defense mostly.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Um, just got sick of it. Might have had something to do with when I finally got my dad to a game. Playoffs. He made a scene,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“What happened?”

She picks at her jacket zipper again. “He was drinking from his ‘water bottle,’ um, actually full of white rum.”

Moony’s cheek twitches.

“I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me and was lying on the field. He wasn’t watching. The coach helped me off and sent in a replacement. Only now, my dad stands up in the bleachers and yells, ‘Get back out there, Summer!’” She doesn’t mention that he added,
you pussy!
because it makes him sound so awful, and he wasn’t. He was just loaded. She continues, determined to finish the story. “Then he yelled, ‘Never everr, everrrr back down’ and then he fell
backwards
into a row of parents.” She chuckles. “You see the irony, right?”

Moony looks horrified. “Uh.”

“Probably no one in your family drinks, since your dad is Muslim. Am I right?” she demands.

He shakes his head. “Dad drinks occasionally. Or used to. Mom, too. Her dad had some issues.”

“Happy to hear it. So you have a clue.”

“Yes.” He looks at her for a moment. “
I
had issues. With painkillers. Last year.”

“Really? What kind of issues?”

He pulls at his collar. “Was taking too many.” His look says,
obviously.

“Sounds like fun.” She grins.

Moony smiles in spite of himself. “No, it wasn’t.” He prompts, “Said he died, when you were twelve…”

“Yeah.”

“Alcohol?”

She knows it played a part—the ball bullets past them. Three players suddenly surround them. Six muscular legs, in shorts, high blue or white socks and shin guards are jumping and straining in front of her. One of the French team players has to throw the ball back in from where they’re sitting, in the way.

Summer stands up. Moony struggles and she gives him her hand. He hesitates, then takes it. She pulls. The moment she registers how nice it is to be holding his hand, she lets go too fast and he almost keels over. “Sorry!” she says. Her neck heats as he stands on his own.

“So yeah, my dad,” she says, “he died of a stroke. By the time I got to the hospital, he was already brain dead. They unhooked his life support late that night.” She remembers how cold it was. And the nice guy in the corridor. Light snow flurries swirling beneath the tall hospital parking lot lights.

Tomorrow is December already. Seventeen days until the anniversary.

Moony’s looking at her. “I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks.”

Moony says nothing, but she can tell he’s listening.

“He would have lived if someone found him sooner,” she adds, thinking of Mom, never where she’s supposed to be. “He was unconscious in the bathroom for hours before anyone even realized.” Summer massages a dark tightness between her eyebrows, then turns it into a dozen bright snowflakes and sends them off.

“What about you?” she asks. “When did your folks split up?”

“After I got out of hospital. Was eleven.” Like a Brit, he doesn’t use an article before ‘hospital.’

“Really? What crap timing.”

He looks down at his deformed hand. “Accident was a huge strain.”

“That sucks.”

He nods but focuses on the game now. The other team is close to making a goal. “New goalie,” he says. “Got to get it out of there—whoa! See that?”

A PAIS player just kicked the ball and it’s soaring through the air deep into enemy territory. Moony bellows, “Go, Tobias!” as a guy heads it to Josh, easy as pie, who shoots it straight into the French team’s goal.

Everyone explodes into cheers. The guys body-slam each other and hoot. Moony jumps and waves his cane. Even Summer claps and high-fives Moony.

Now it’s one to zero.

She dares to ask, “Were you … ever afraid … that you
wouldn’t
get better? Be able to walk again, and all?”

Moony says, “No. I knew I’d get better. Could stand any pain, was a matter of
when
I’d be back to normal.” He pauses. “Not quite there yet.” The corners of his mouth turn up. “Once I could walk without help, like eighteen months after the accident,
then
I had mental problems.”

“You still do.”

He laughs for real. “I know.”

“I’m kidding. But why then?”

“Not unusual. At all. You’ve recovered, but reality sets in. Realize you’re always going to be a gimp. Have pain, memory, bowel problems.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

“Certain things forever out of reach.” He says all this so evenly, she realizes he’s working hard not to sound down. How
does
he keep so positive and energetic about school and activities, she wonders. About life.

It’s raining by the time the ref blows his whistle. Game over. PAIS won, 1–0.

On the ride back, the boys discuss and rehash each play. Tired and sinking, Summer sits quietly and wishes the middle seat didn’t separate her from Moony.

Josh’s mom lets them off at the avenue Foch entrance into the
É
toile, across from the Arc de Triomphe. Summer observes the madness that is right-of-way in the six-lane, twelve-spoke roundabout and blurts out to Moony, “Want to … go have a coffee or something?” She doesn’t want the time with him to end.

“Got a doctor’s appointment,” he says.

She believes him, but her disappointment spasms like he just said she’s a fat, vicious liar and drunk and he never wants to see her again. Then tossed in a foul Sicilian curse on all her future offspring.

What is she thinking? It’s hopeless. She already knows she can’t do this. Be with someone. And find flipping purpose. It’s absurd. She can’t even keep a friend.

She will never get better.

Moony’s watching her closely. “I’ll limp you to your train,” he says. “And see you tomorrow. 16:00.”

She puts on a smile. “Oh, I’ll just walk home from here. I’m close.” She’s still not capable of the M
é
tro. She can’t help herself—she scans the crowds, half expecting to run into Kurt.

As if reading her mind, Moony asks, “What about that guy? At Les Puces?”

“Which guy?” But she knows.

“That … Arab guy.”

“At the silver stall?” He’s not Arab. Maybe it was hard to tell with Kurt’s shades on or maybe Moony’s just home-region-centric. “I don’t know him. Just ran into him once.”

“Where?”

“Out doing touristy stuff.” She doesn’t feel like sharing this info with Moony. She’s divulged too much for one day. Anyway, it’s her business.

“Think he’s following you?” Moony asks. “Don’t engage him,” he says sternly. “In any way.”

“Please. He’s not following me. It was just a coincidence.” She looks down at the sidewalk, then back up at Moony. “Don’t worry, I know my way around the block.”

FIFTEEN

Sunday afternoon, December first, Summer watches a Tibetan sky burial on YouTube while she unravels the crocheted afghan on her bed. She should be studying French and preparing for Moony’s impending visit but can’t focus on irregular verbs and political vocabulary.

The Tibetan family is bringing the bundled body to rest it on a few rocks so it’s not on the stone floor of the tower. Seated monks ring the area. Everyone sits out of the way so that the birds—vultures, actually—can do their work. Although they don’t show that part. It’s not morbid at all.
Jhator
is the practice of offering your body to animals as a final act of kindness. You don’t need it anymore. They get nourishment. Everybody’s happy.

The building buzzer sounds.

She startles, clicks off her computer and jogs out to the apartment door. The front entrance to the building is open during business hours, but locked at night and on weekends with a code pad. She already texted Moony the outdoor code. Once in the building, a second main door has a buzzer for each apartment and video camera for viewing visitors.

The video screen in their apartment is lit up and a black-and-white image of Moony’s face flickers there. She hesitates, then presses the intercom. “Come on up. Second floor. Only door.”

He smiles as she jabs the button that remotely opens the inside door to the elevator and stairs. She wishes she’d studied more French. He’s going to think she’s dense.

Oh, and sloppy.

She runs back to her bathroom, pulls a brush through her hair and dabs on some lip-gloss. Then she shoves a pile of folded, laundered underwear into her armoire. The front doorbell chimes. She trots out in time to see Ouaiba open the door.

“
Monsieur Moony est l
à
,
” Ouaiba announces with a big smile.

Moony stands inside the foyer craning his neck at the fifteen-foot ceiling, the chandelier, the gilt mirrors, and the antique French furniture.

“Hey,” she says, grinning. Her anxiousness evaporates on seeing his face. They kiss cheeks. He’s the only person she likes doing that with. It’s not a great custom as far as she’s concerned.

“Bling crib,” he says.

She gestures vaguely at the room. “Thanks to all the brave chickens. Um, come on back this way. Mom’s got a soir
é
e going on in the living room, best avoided. Tiptoe.” Last thing she wants to do is to expose him to Mom.

Moony has no cane today, but points to his right leg and thick shoe bottom and reminds her, “Tiptoeing’s not an option.”

“Right. My bad.”

As they walk past the open double doors to the living room, Mom calls, “Summer? Come in, darling, and say hello.” There are about seven or eight people in the huge salon, all gripping champagne flutes. A two-foot-tall cone paved with rows of beige caramel and pale pink strawberry
macarons
topped with icing roses sits on the coffee table.

Summer rolls her eyes and leads Moony in and introduces him to Mom. Mom holds out her hand and looks surprised when Moony offers his left to shake. Summer observes her mother sizing him up, a disabled Arab kid in a hoodie, and silently dares Mom to make any condescending comment or gesture. But Mom doesn’t.

A familiar but unidentifiable beefy, balding man bounds up, sloshing a crystal tumbler overfull with scotch. “Hello, gorgeous. I don’t know what that thing is in your nose there, but you sure shed some pounds, you skinny thing.” He grabs and hugs her, spilling more of his drink. Summer steps back, scowling. Too bad she can’t say the same for him. She didn’t recognize Wild Winston because he’s gained thirty pounds and lost most of his hair since the last time she saw him.

He adds, “And nice of you to get dressed up for this. Har-har.”

She looks down at her old, too large Alcatraz T-shirt. A comeback involving his inability to remove his belly or put on another head of hair pops in her mind, but she just says, “Har-har yourself. This is my friend, Munir Al Shukr. Moony, this is Winston Thomason, Houston resident and chicken lawyer.”

Moony says, “Nice to meet you.” He shakes hands again with his left.

A catering woman offers them hors d’oeuvres. Summer takes the nearest, a gray slab with flecks of parsley spread on a thin slice of baguette.

Winston turns to her and says in a serious voice, “So how’s everything going?”

Summer says, “Fine. I’m working hard. Moony’s here, in fact, to help me with French. Yuck! Liver.” She spits the masticated hors d’oeuvre into a napkin then sticks it on the tray of a passing server.

Winston grimaces. Then says, “Are you on track to start up somewhere in January?”

“I don’t know.”

Winston’s eyebrows shoot up and his chin sinks back into his second one. Just answer him, she thinks. “Probably Jonesboro. We’re working on it. The college counselor is helping me.”

Moony’s staring down at the carpet. Mom pulls him over to meet one of the French guests.

“Awright,” drawls Winston. “Then we’ll see about transferring you. Assuming you keep your grades up.”

“Right,” says Summer, turning away. The other guests resume chatting all at once. They must have been enjoying the show.

She pulls Moony out of the room, grabbing two full champagne glasses from a tray on their way out.

“Sorry about the grand inquisition in there. I hate these things. They bring out the thirteen-year-old in me.”

“No kidding,” Moony says drily. “Jonesboro?”

“That’s where Arkansas State is.”

“You start in January?”

“Um, probably not. More likely next fall, at Whipperwill U. Or some place like that. At least, that’s the plan, for now.” She sighs. “First, I have to graduate. For that, I have to pass my French test.”

“
Insha’Allah
.”

“What’s that mean again?”

Moony smiles. “God willing.”

“It’s going to take more than God.” She pauses at her door, and turns to Moony. “My grandpa left me money when he died. But I have to graduate from a private high school and a four-year university by the time I’m twenty-two to get it. I’m already a year behind schedule, and they’re about to call in a hazmat squad.”

“Oh. Get to work, then.”

“I guess.”

They go to Summer’s room and she indicates an overstuffed chair for Moony. He examines the boxed set of Tolkien’s
Lord of the Rings
trilogy on her dresser. “Nice.”

“It was my dad’s. I think he secretly wanted to be Aragorn.”

“Don’t we all.”

Dad took her to see
The Fellowship of the Ring
when she was too little. She got so upset when the Balrog pulled Gandalf into the abyss of Moria under the Bridge of Khazad-d
û
m, they had to leave the theater. And get chocolate ice cream. They watched it all the way through a couple of years later, though.

Moony sits. She holds out a glass of champagne.

“No thanks.”

“How come? Because you’re Muslim?” She drinks down half of hers.