Boy of the Moon

9

Legs dangling primly over the edge of the bay window seat, Emile stared at the drawn muslin curtains. There it was, that same warm, bright spot where the Sun peeked through their fibers like it did on cool noon days to coax you to open your eyes and stare at it. Emile had tried that once and almost went blind.

Except his staring had only lasted one bright second, while others like Tulie could last for five seconds. And their eyes could stay open and they wouldn't go blind -- yet. Emile had stared at the Sun through his eyelids. The Sun hated that so much that it had tried to snatch his eyes away. He wasn't mad. He was just deeply sorry that that was the way things had to be between them.

Seeing him sigh more than was usual, his mother put a plump kettle full of water to boil, arranged a tray for two and brewed a palm pinch of peppermint tea. Winter, fall, spring, summer... It was always, always time for tea. It must be said that for a mild woman, her taste in tea was strong and concentrated, and her husband sometimes joked that he wasn't sure he loved her until he watched her brew him tea. Couples usually had songs they shared on special days; they had a flavor. It was rose tea.

Mme Rosaline Thayer and M. Alaire Laverne had married because of a cup of rose tea, yet it wasn't altogether inconceivable if one knew how much of her soul she had devoted to specially-crafted blends. After sipping it alone for years, Alaire was the only person she had brewed rose tea for. She hadn't met him once and still knew that he deserved it.

In between pouring out Emile's mug and hers, she remembered wistfully how his fair skin had flushed in delight as she spied him from the glass ice-cream case connected to the café counter. Astounded beyond measure, he approached the counter and asked a waiter for the type of rose tea they used to which the waiter replied, confused, that they did not serve rose tea.  M. Laverne was, rationally, confused and worried. Rosaline was astounded that he could tell what kind of tea it was -- he had not ordered it, and still, he knew. It was wonderful. Needless to say, the waiter pressed Mademoiselle Thayer to inform the manager of her mischief and the tea was added to the wide selection of drinks, after which she made her way home, thinking how idiotic it had been to willfully hand out her tea like that as if it were no big deal. The stranger with a gorgeous mustache the color of musky sandalwood and a cologne that smelled no less warm had touched his lips to her secret first and he didn't even realize. Or did he? It was winter at the time and thinking about him was enough to warm her up. 

Then, to find him waiting outside the café, looking so amiable in his dark brown coat...

Emile sighed again and Mme Thayer reigned in her thoughts. Alaire had shaved off his mustache years ago when his age snowed on it and it was rare that she found the magic in her to brew rose tea anymore. So she picked up the tray rattling with cups and brought it over to the windowsill where her son was stuck in some deep sadness.

"Peppermint tea?"

"..."

"It will help. Here."

"..."

"How are you feeling, mon chou? Have you thought yourself to far away places again?" - she laid a hand on his forehead - "You're overworking the machine in there, I see. Do you feel cold, ma chérie? As-tu mal à la tête? If you want, we can --"

"Thanks." He took a sip from his tea, turned away, continued to stare at the curtain or what might be behind it.

No matter how much Rosaline liked to help loved ones in a fix, there came a point when simple absent-mindedness overstepped into the territory of disrespect for another's concern. She found herself having to clear this territory more and more often these days with her son.

"What is that attitude now?" she asked. "If my mother had asked me if I had an headache (the 'h' was always silent with her) I would say yes and pretend to faint in her arms just to get her attention."

Emile shifted in his seat but refused to speak.

"Mon dieu, it's like I am talking to walls." She picked up her mug and held it cradled in her lap. It was clear as day that he was not really sitting next to her, but sitting slumped in a depressing daydream in another world. Yet again, she was sorry she had spoken in defense when Emile had done nothing except ignore her. Saving the ends of her long flaxen hair from drowning in her tea, she reached out to take his hand. He tensed. She pretended not to notice; it reminded her of the first time she had hugged Alaire.

There was a book in Emile's crossed arms and she recognized it immediately.

"Is it that fairy tale again?" she asked, lips curved in distaste and understanding. Emile nodded. He slowly turned his head to face her, eyes two overflowing pools of titanium.

"I wanna see the ocean, maman," he said. Rosaline's eyes watered as they usually did. She placed her tea in the tray, and the tray on the coffee table and pulled her son to her chest.

"I know, ma chérie, I know," she cooed. "Un jour. Un jour..."

"But when?" 

"When the doctor says it's alright to do so."

First, she took the trembling mug from his hand and stowed it behind her. Second, she rubbed his back in circular motions. Emile hardly ever cried -- this occasion was no exception -- yet he was such a sentimental soul that he couldn't help breaking his heart over and over on purpose. That's what she always told her tea friends, like a peacock bewailing its tedious plumage when in fact it knew the plumage did more good than harm. That was then, the aftermath. Now, her tea friends or plumage or boasting, none of them crossed her mind. It wasn't "My son is awfully sensitive; I'm sure he'll be a great artist", it was "My poor boy, I'm scared this big heart might bleed out one day, please tell me how to stop this torture."

"How about we wait for papa to come and he can drive you to the pool?"

"I don't want to go to the pool."

"Where do you want to go then?"

"I want to walk on sand and collect a big pile of Saint-Jacques shells and catch fish and drink salt water."

"What do you have, a sore throat? Why do you want to drink salt water, mon amour?"

"..."

"I have an idea. Maybe you can ask Elliot to bring you a jar full of sand and salt water and some coquilles and I promise you can drink some -- not all -- of the salt water."

"His name is Chris."

"Eh, bien. Monsieur Masoud goes fishing every week, doesn't he? What do you think?"

"I'll ask him, maybe," Emile replied, evidently satisfied, and sat back. He almost let slip the rendezvous they had planned for tonight. That is if Ell had understood the message.

Mme Thayer stood, fixed a barrette in her hair and said "I'll call to invite them to dinner now. I don't think today is a good day but we'll see. Then you can ask him, hein? Je n'ai pas encore parlé à Essie depuis longtemps, I wonder how she's doing... Drink up, ma chérie."

Tea in hand, she pecked his forehead and retreated back into the kitchen. She observed Tulie lying down on the grass outside, all sun, and sighed. Sun and Moon. Those were her children.

Just at that moment. Emile parted the curtains and saw Ell walking up the sidewalk with his father, hand in hand. He quickly drew the curtains closed and hugged the book with all his might to stop himself from knocking on the glass. Forget going to the ocean. He just wanted to walk up the sidewalk with Ell. Holding hands. And maybe talking. In the naked sunlight. Just walk up and down the sidewalk, their skin exposed... No hats, no sun cream, no gloves, no scarves. Even crazier: no socks, no shirts, no trousers, no... Oh.

And further and further down this rabbit-hole of daydreaming Emile fell, to the source of all his other daydreams and fantasies in later years.