Page 62 of The Two of Us

Packed side by side are two tote bags and a picnic basket filled to the brim with items he’s packed for the night. The tote bags hold an assortment of quilts and mini pillows, while the basket makes a clinking noise of glass on glass when he picks it up. It doesn’t take a genius to guess the contents. I’m pretty sure wine runs through his veins.

Surprisingly, we made good time and we end up securing the spot closest to the jumbo screen. Families and friends scatter about on their own blankets and mats and I wonder if we all look like a quilted blanket from an aerial view. A mini stage has been erected beneath the screen with a handful of chairs and microphones resting on them.

“After each film, the director and some of the cast will give us some insight and answer questions from the audience.” Jean-Paul points.

I nod, keeping my eyes locked on the stage, feeling excitement bubble beneath my skin. I’ve never had the opportunity to witness something so close to the entertainment industry. In Speck Lake, I can watch all the movies I want, but here I get a sneak peek behind the veil.

A tall, lanky guy who looks like an intern steps onto the stage, letting everyone know that the first film of the night, a black and white indie called La Lune est à Nous, will begin in ten minutes.

I tap Jean-Paul’s shoulder as he organizes his makeshift charcuterie board. “Is my mom close?”

His shoulders tense and he checks the time on his phone. “She should be here any second now.”

The chatter around us dies down as everyone begins settling in. The opening credits dance across the screen and Jean-Paul leans in to whisper something about my mom running a little late due to an issue with the master kiln at the studio. I push back at the hurt begging for entrance in my chest and focus on the film. I’m not shocked, but that fact does little to lessen the blow. About a third of the way through the film, Jean-Paul whispers through gritted teeth that my mom is only going to be able to make it for the second film and I lift a shoulder in indifference, consumed by the conflict in the film. The heroine, Colette, is contemplating how to tell her lover, Françoise, that she’s responsible for his brother’s death.

It’s not until we’re halfway through the second showing of the night, a film noir called Une Vie D’ombres, that I give Jean-Paul my full attention. He single-handedly crushed a bottle of wine by himself and his shoulders hunch over in disappointment. My mom’s absence is affecting him more than me.

I stack prosciutto and brie cheese on a cracker before clearing my throat. “These films are great, JP. Thanks for bringing me.”

He’s silent and when he looks at me, his eyes are tired. “I’m sorry, Mara. I don’t see how she could do this.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that this isn’t out of the ordinary for my mother and her flaking out on our plans was to be expected.

“It’s really okay,” I say with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “She’s been like this since I was a kid.”

Jean-Paul flinches at that before taking a swig from the new bottle of wine he’s just opened. I return my attention to the film and he rasps out, “She’s an enigma, your mother.”

I grow still, letting him continue. “When I married her, I thought: there it is, there is the light I’ve been searching for. She was a torch and if you were lucky to be in her presence, she shone on you. Danced around you with that… with that glow of hers.” Jean-Paul twists the silver band on his finger as his eyes sadden. “But she is selfish. I don’t think she means to be. She simply… can’t see the people or things beyond her own light. And I love her. I would choose to disappear in her light any day. But I am sorry for you, Mara. I am sorry that you did not get to choose.”

I keep my eyes glued to the screen, holding my breath to keep the tremor in my throat at bay. Jean-Paul affords me a small mercy by returning to his cheeses and wines instead of pushing the conversation further. And when the film ends, I join the crowd as we stand to our feet for a standing ovation. We’re all strangers but I feel less alone.

Our trek back to the parking lot is somber and while Jean-Paul loads everything back into the car, I settle into the front seat, pulling my book on Joan of Arc into my lap. He drives in silence as I read and when we return to the flat, the flat is dark and empty. I already know my mom is still at the studio and not asleep in her bed. I chuck my shoes by the door and mutter a halfhearted good night.

“You’ll have to let me know your thoughts when you read about Joan of Arc surrendering to Lyonnel de Wandomme.”

I turn slowly. “What did you just say?”

Jean-Paul grunts and face-palms. “Forgive me. I’ve had too much wine and look, now I have gone and spoiled the surprise.”

“You… you already know the history of Joan of Arc?”

He blinks once. Then again. “Yes.”

“How?”

He examines his fingernail before lifting a shoulder. “I had a class on the life of Joan of Arc when I worked toward my license, er—I believe it is called an undergraduate degree in the states.”

Jean-Paul slips off his shoes in the corner and pours himself a glass of water with complete nonchalance, as if he hasn’t just told me that he’s basically an expert on the one topic I’ve been rambling on to him about for the past two weeks.

Baffled, I ask, “Why?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Why what?”

“Why let me go on and on every day about her life? Why sit there through it all? You probably know more than I could ever learn from this book—why listen to me?”

He ponders my question before tipping his glass back, chugging the rest of his water. He shrugs off his jacket, throws it on the coat rack in the entryway and returns, his eyes solid.

“Because you have things to say. And people should listen.”

---