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He plodded from the Metro to his house and unlocked the gate. The points on the ends of the wrought iron bars embedded in the concrete wall along the front gave him a feeling of security against burglars. He quietly closed the gate behind him.
Instead of going up the front steps, he followed a tiled path to the back of the house. Fourteen-foot-high walls surrounded the property in back. Within the walls, behind the house, he and Elodie had a private garden. Well, the neighbors on one side could see it out their rear windows, because their house was attached to his. But they usually had those windows shuttered, so it felt private. He loved it.
He sank onto a weathered wooden bench. In the light evening breeze, his favorite thing was happening: each leaf of the ivy clinging to the walls was trembling individually. Philippe loved it when it rained, too: drops of water would collect on the five points of each leaf and swell until they dropped in their own sweet time to earth. He sat out in the garden in all seasons except winter, when Paris was locked in a damp, bone-numbing cold.
A bird flitted by, late to his nest. What did it feel like to be a bird, outdoors year round? What did they think of a Paris winter?
He looked up at the sky, finally dark. Worse than the humid coldness in winter was the lack of light. Philippe usually got up at seven and would wait, desperate, until eight-thirty for the sun to rise. And then it was always behind thick layers of clouds. If it occasionally broke through, he would drop what he was doing and rush outside to find a place where a sunbeam actually struck the earth.
With the sun so deep in the south that it barely made it over the tops of two-story buildings, finding a sunbeam in six-story Paris to bask in was difficult. He would plant himself in a sunny spot, and people would bousculer him, bump him with an embedded message: you’re taking up too much room, as he stood soaking in the light.
But as soon as the sunlight reached the earth, moisture would rise and clouds would form and block the sun again. A week might go by before the sun came out for another five minutes. This past winter had been a particularly bad one. He had felt shaky inside for months, he had been so desperate for light.
But now it was summer, and the sky glowed until almost eleven at night. Glorious! It was after midnight, and time to go to bed.
“Hi, Elodie!” he called as he let himself in the front door.
“Philippe!” she called back. “In the kitchen.”
Their house on Chemin de Fer—literally “the narrow way of iron,” in other words, Railroad Street—was a beautiful refuge. Yes, the countertop in the kitchen was too low for a standard-issue human, but the house was spacious, with cross-ventilation in summer and snug windows in winter. It would do.
Elodie shook her sudsy hands into the sink.
“Meredees is drunk again.”
Philippe groaned and leaned against the refrigerator. A postcard from his eldest daughter, living in Barcelona, Spain, fell to the floor along with its magnet. He bent wearily to pick them up.
“She wouldn’t ‘elp me—couldn’t—wiz ze dishes,” Elodie continued. “When I ask’ her to ‘elp, she stomp out in a fit. I watch her stagger up ze stairs.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Philippe said. “I just don’t know. I guess I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“Good luck with zat,” Elodie said sourly. She carefully brushed her long bangs out of her eyes with a soapy index finger that she drew across her forehead.
“We’ve tried everything the Tough Love people suggested.” Philippe’s voice was near a whisper. “I’ve detached. Mostly with love. I’ve set boundaries—you have, too. We’ve insisted on respect. But what happens? She came to my office today and asked for money. I didn’t give in.”
“Good.”
“Yeah, but where did she get the money to get drunk tonight?”
“Friends?”
Neither of them wanted to think too much about what Meredith might be doing for money. Philippe thought, her friends must be sick, like I am, of the way she gives everybody the touch.
“We’ve tried everything except—”
“Anyway,” Elodie said in a new tone of briskness, “How was it at ze group?”
“I think it has talented people,” Philippe replied, glad to let the painful topic of Meredith drop. “Their feedback will help me write better. But there’s this one guy, John. Makes a lot of money. I know I shouldn’t compare, but I get tired of being so strapped. I can only afford to sit in a café once a month.”
“Eet’s what you signed on for,” Elodie said, her hands submerged in soapy water. “Unless you resink what it is you want to be when you grow up.”
“Hah! Well, I guess I’ll head to bed.”
“Dry zese dishes?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
