Romancing the Dark in the City of Light by Ann Jacobus

Author:Ann Jacobus
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

THIRTY-ONE

“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” says Moony, leaving the door to the hallway partially open. A single bed with a dark-green-and-white-striped spread is tucked into the corner of his small room. An armoire fills the other corner. A brass lamp glows. Everything is in military order.

His desk and bookshelf take up the other end of the space. On a shelf sits a photo of Moony when he was about eight, before his accident. A perfect little boy with large new front teeth stands beside a man in a white Arabic headdress with the black cord coiled around his crown.

“Your dad,” Summer says, leaning closer to study it. The man looks intelligently through wire-rimmed glasses with a hint of mischief in his eyes, and probably a good sense of humor. He grins into the camera, gripping and clearly proud of his handsome, big-toothed son.

“That’s him.” Moony offers her some pistachios.

“Thanks. What do you call the headdress?”

Moony leans in over her just as she’s straightens up. His head dodges hers as their faces come within inches and her breast brushes his shoulder. “Sorry,” he says. “A ghutrah. In the Gulf.”

Summer steps back. “Gu-tra. Cool,” she says. Is her breath okay? “Lawrence of Arabia–like.” She really should have worn one of her new tops and put on some zit cover-up, at least.

Moony shakes his head. “Lawrence of Arabia was an imperialist interloper.” He crunches some cracked pistachios.

“Whatever you say. Do you see your dad very often?” She eats a couple, too.

“Not really. We talk, he sends YouTube links, money.”

“Is he rich?”

Moony smiles. “No. But not poor. Works for the Ministry of the Interior.” He pauses. “Go to Kuwait every year, usually Christmas break. Not this year.”

“Why?” She backs up against the armoire.

“Operation.”

She grabs her opening. “So what kind of operation are you having?”

“It’s boring.”

“Not to me.”

He plops down stiffly in his desk chair that’s only a couple of feet from the bed and frowns. Says nothing.

“But it would be good if he were here for it, wouldn’t it? Won’t he come visit you?” She hears that she’s talking all fast.

“Can’t this time.”

“Oh.”

“Not crazy about his second wife. Treats me like a freak.”

Her mouth falls open. How could anyone treat Moony like a freak? “That’s ridiculous! I’d like to gore her with my tusks.”

“Ha!” he says then coughs.

Balancing on the narrow bookshelf crammed with books, is a red felt board paved with Cub Scout patches, a signed baseball, a photo of the Paris-St. Germain soccer team, and a model of some molecule. And dozens and dozens of medication boxes and bottles. He presses two pills out of a blister pack as she stares, then swallows them without water.

“Meds,” he explains needlessly. “Have a seat.” He indicates the bed. “You’re pacing.”

A small photo of a full-faced, pretty but serious-looking twenty-something woman with glasses sits behind a yellow model Ferrari. A slight mustache shades her upper lip.

“Is she a relative?” Summer asks, sitting and crossing her legs.

“No. Old friend.”

“Hmm. An older woman.”

“Maybe. Time to work.”

Textbooks are lined up on his desk, along with his computer, calculator, stacks of notebooks, and index cards.

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