Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (22 page)

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 front doorbell rings. Summer startles. She checks the clock. It’s almost midnight. Maybe it’s a neighbor with an emergency. No one from outside could get into the building.

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 is, 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 chrysanthemums 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 cigs 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.”

“I do.”

He pats the spot next to him on the couch. Summer comes over but stays standing. From his jacket pocket he pulls a Xeroxed 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 papers,” 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.”

“Yeah.”

“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 out 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. That’s for sure.”

“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. Let’s go look in the medicine cabinet.”

“She keeps it locked.”

“Locked, schmocked,” Kurt says. “Show me where.”

His hand is on the small of her back as they walk down the dark hallway to Mom’s room. It leaves a numb patch she feels through her shirt. But she doesn’t mind. The light in the marble bathroom glares and washes them out, making their reflections in the mirror ghoulish. Especially through their cigarette smoke. Kurt pulls a key chain out of his pants pocket and jams a random key into the flimsy lock of the cabinet. It pops open.

“Now let’s see what we have here. This is Seconal, not much left. Vicodin, sleeping pills…” He picks up the blister packs and examines each one, then hands them to her.

“Put these somewhere safe.”

Summer stuffs them in her jeans pocket for the time being and turns out the light. “This is the answer to all my problems? I don’t really like pills.”

“Why not?”

“Um, it’s how Dad died.”

He gives her that
Don’t be moronic
look. “Summer. What do you think we’re doing here?”

“Right.”

Kurt takes her hand and leads her back down the hall.

The dense weight of all that has been building up, piling on her, since the beginning of time, has lead to this night. “I guess it’s been coming for a long time,” 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.

Wait, she thinks, what about safe sex?

Ha! It doesn’t matter.

Later she pulls herself across the dark room, drawn to the pale silver light coming in the giant French window. She presses her cheek against the thick raw silk curtains, held back with braided silk rope and tassels.

The Eiffel Tower is doing its sparkler thing across the river while the searchlight on top sweeps the entire dark city, over and over. Looking for what? Lost souls. It’s the saddest thing she’s ever seen.

Even though she thought she did, she doesn’t want to eat snails by candlelight or hold hands through museums filled with Impressionist art. She certainly doesn’t want to go to
school
.

And she doesn’t deserve or want her grandpa’s fortune. Not even a little bit. Never did.

“Must be midnight,” she mumbles. All those snowflakes. They didn’t blow away. They piled up and froze solid. All the way through her. Summer, the giant ice statue. It’s hard to function when you’re an ice statue. It’s impossible once you’ve shattered.

He’s behind her. She turns around. He gently takes her face in his hand. “I have your word?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. “What?”

“Don’t play coy,” he growls. “What do you think I want your word on?”

“Suicide,” she whispers.

“Bingo!”

“Yes,” she says, closing her eyes. “But not pills. And not tonight.” He is in charge, but at least she can do it her own way.

The front door slams and Kurt is gone.

FORTY-SEVEN

Summer gets up very late the next day. Tuesday, December 17.

Dad’s anniversary.

Even though she didn’t sleep much, she feels more energetic than she has in a long time. Some of the icebergs that have been pressing her down, have … shrunk a little. Climate change. She knows what she needs to do.

She finally has purpose.

After her shower, she looks at her body in the mirror while drying herself off. Soon, it won’t exist anymore. What a relief.

In the kitchen Ouaiba is cutting up fruit. “
Bonjour,
mademoiselle,” she says. “
Pas d’
é
cole?
” She apparently gave up worrying about Summer’s sleep habits and trying to get her to eat weeks ago

“No school,” Summer confirms. It’s her own personal holiday: Last Day on Earth.

She drinks some OJ and glances at the back page of the
International Herald Tribune
. Next to a classified ad thanking Saint Jude, the SOS headline catches Summer’s eye.
FEELING DOWN? NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE?
Then at the bottom,
FEELING SUICIDAL?
The telephone number hasn’t changed.