by R. O. Kwon
I opened my eyes, and I’d sprawled in a jut of sunlight, floating in the usual daze of a headache. Not quite conscious, I reached toward Phoebe, and I felt the cold of taut cotton. It was the white sheet, its lip folded on top of the blanket, Phoebe’s side of the bed pulled flat.
29.
JOHN LEAL
He often prayed, he said, about the old man who leaned on his cane at the clinic exit, eyes lifted. When asked what he was doing, he explained he was counting the souls of slaughtered babies. Rising to the Lord, the old man said. The angel babies rise on high. He was right, John Leal said. I looked up until I saw them, too. Spirits, a long line floating toward the Lord. In each child’s name, praise Him. We’ll devote the revolution to these short lives, and He will, in turn, lift His face upon us.
30.
PHOEBE
I’ve lied about the crash, Phoebe then told them. That night, in L.A., we did watch a cellist. I’d been crying, and I insisted on driving us home from the concert hall. Blinded, I lost control of the sedan: all this, I’ve admitted. I also said, though, that she died at once. She didn’t. I hit the truck, then the sedan slid along a railing. It flipped on its side. The next time I opened my eyes, she’d fallen on top of me. I asked if she was hurt. She didn’t respond, but she was still breathing. People outside kept shouting that the metal had twisted. They’d have to slice it open. But I had both hands free. I’d heard the stories about people finding inborn superhuman abilities, lifting cars to save trapped babies. I tried to push. It had no effect. She’d moved fast to put herself between me and the truck. In that split of time, she’d unbuckled the seat belt. She’d hurled in front of me. If she could do all that, I should at least be able to help pull us out. Instead, I sat in place. I waited while she bled to death.
John’s said that Christ is with us, not beyond, in pain. To recall those I’ve hurt, to catalog the times I’ve failed, is also to learn how to forgive. Christ’s purifying crucible isn’t pain, but sin. Each loss includes its redress; each evil, its pardon. The truth is, I did crash. People lift cars. I claim this guilt. If all is possible for those who believe, if I, if you, can be so much at fault, think how powerful you and I will be.
31.
WILL
With April rolling into spring, I tried one more time. I read all the advice I could find for people hoping to pull those they loved from cults. I emailed Tess, the girl who’d quit the group just before I joined, but the note couldn’t be delivered: she’d left school, I gathered. I attempted to enlist Julian, as well. He didn’t return my calls, so I borrowed a Phi Epsilon’s jeep. I drove to Litton Street, to the Jejah house.
I intended to apologize, in person; as the literature advised, I wanted to let Phoebe know I could be depended upon. Full, positive support, but once I parked, I didn’t get out. The windshield sprouted buds of light rain. In a little while, I thought, but still the minutes ticked past. When I looked at my watch again, it was almost midnight, too late to ring the bell. I kept seeing the point in time, and choice, when I pressed Phoebe down against the floorboards. She’d flinched with pain, then surprise. I’d found it satisfying: I enjoyed frightening the girl I loved. I had hurt Phoebe more than they could. I wasn’t to be trusted. If I loved Phoebe, I’d leave the girl alone. Useless tears burned my eyes. I left when I could.
* * *
–
I sent Julian a note with what I’d learned about cults, after which, knowing Phoebe’s schedule, I did as she asked, staying away. With no sign of Phoebe, I kept finding I’d paused to gaze, instead, at a beige raincoat thrown across a bench; a girl in a striped dress. The dining-hall grand piano, its glossed lid hinged open. Piped-in Ella, scatting, had me at a standstill in the deli aisle. The bathtub drain clogged. I pulled out a black plug, the tangled hairs iridescent with soap-froth. She’d left lip balm in a pile of toiletries. I twisted open the black cap: the gel surface was still indented, rough with use. I inhaled the faint salt scent of Phoebe’s mouth, then sealed the balm. I put it beneath the sink, where I could find it.
By chance, in late April, I saw Phoebe again. I was exiting the dining hall. In the rotunda, I saw my old girlfriend walking in. It was too late to pretend otherwise. Once we’d said hello, she fell silent. Others hurried past. She stood in place, face averted, until, at a loss, I asked about Julian.
Julian, she said.
Your friend, I said. Julian Noh. Tall. Korean.
I haven’t talked to him in a while.
I looked up, startled. I’d gotten used to the sound of Phoebe on the phone with him, the Julian who also stopped by without notice, pint of kimchi in hand, illegal Czech absinthe. He’d leave the gift in the kitchen before he hightailed it into the bedroom, taking hours of Phoebe’s time. But you love Julian, I said.
She shifted an arm, a one-sided shrug. The rotunda light whitened Phoebe’s features as in an overexposed photo, already turning this, us, into the past. I apologized; she interrupted, head shaking. I should go, she said. Will, I don’t think you’ve even tried to understand—
I caught sight of Phoebe one more time, that spring. She was crossing the quadrangle with John Leal, lit up then extinguished in pools of light. I watched Phoebe laugh. She had on a jacket I didn’t recognize: his, perhaps. It hid her small frame. I turned left; I let them be.
* * *
–
In June, I moved south, to Manhattan, for a hedge-fund internship. I worked long hours, more than I had in Beijing, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I solicited extra projects. I couldn’t fill what little time alone I had. I required pills, or alcohol, often both, to fall asleep. Nights, I was in the habit of spilling the bottle of prescribed sedatives onto the bedside table to look at the pills scattered white, like dice. I’d made the novice mistake of living downtown, next to the fund. The Financial District emptied along with its office buildings. I drifted the streets in the milk heat of late mornings. Taxis blurred past, roof lights signaling isolation.
One evening, as I walked home from the office, I saw a girl stumble, then fall. Leaning toward the curb, she threw up. I’d have kept walking, but she’d drawn people’s attention. Someone whistled, laughing. A group of loud men stopped to watch, swaying in place like a barbershop quartet. I bent down, telling the girl my name. I asked if she knew where she was going.
I’m in a hotel, she said. It has a café called the Black Spotted Dog. The White Dog. I don’t know. It has no dogs. My girlfriends—
She threw up again, gasping. Unsure what else to do, I held back the girl’s bob, thin curls clinging with sweat. She asked for water, her voice small. The tinted glass of a deli reflected our images. I went in. I bought a bottle of Evian. I handed it to the girl, and, still sitting, she tried a sip, spat it out, then poured the rest of the bottle on her head. Liquid gushed down the girl’s dress, splashed the tan slopes of slim legs. Holding the upended bottle, she wept.
Exhausted, I helped the girl up. Lukewarm Evian rilled through my hands as in the baptismal rites I’d loved, and I recalled my mother’s smile rising from the lake, light striating the muddied blue. Phoebe pushing herself out of the pool, the wet flashing down in sheets. Medieval penitents so avid for holiness they’d swilled saints’ baths, a long tradition of lustral mania that led straight to the penitential cuts striping Phoebe’s back. Was this also faith’s aftereffect, the lingering taste for others’ histrionics? If so, I’d had enough.
Where’s your hotel? I asked, about to hail a taxi.
She named an intersection close to the seaport, a couple of blocks north. I could walk you there, I offered.
She stopped crying, and stared. I don’t think so, she said.
But I, those drunks are watching you, and—
Who the hell are you?
I provided my name again, but she recoiled, flinging off the arm with which I held her up. She thrust both palms out, a warning, as she backed down the street, toward the ho
tel. I stayed where I was. In the days to come, I couldn’t forget that storefront glass, the mirrored girl. This girl wasn’t Phoebe, I realized that, but I kept seeing a procession of girls falling down, long hair radiating into black haloes. In half-zipped shift dresses, they hold out a hand. I lift the girls up, unhurt: I watch them go.
* * *
–
In the fall, back at Edwards, I was at a Phi Epsilon social when I heard from a friend of Julian’s that Phoebe was home, in Los Angeles. She’d taken the term off from school. Unspecified personal reasons, the friend said. I excused myself, and I went to the bathroom. I sat on a tub, breathing. I hadn’t realized I was waiting to be given news. It sounded as though she’d quit Jejah. Maybe Phoebe’s father had learned the truth about his gulag charlatan. He’d swept in to help. I left the social without talking to anyone else; I didn’t want to dilute the joy I felt.
Then, in October, I was invited by Nikhil Mehta, a Phi Epsilon, to watch the airball game from his suite. I’d been secluded in a library carrel, finishing midterm papers; but the sun, like mild alcohol, had me longing to be with people, life. Blue flags rippled, the wind thin, rustling. In minutes, students would fill the lawn, fighting to help hit an inflated, six-foot ball toward the goal. I imagined the Edwards ghosts drawn to this sport, an old college tradition; they’d have sniffed the blood. I walked to Nikhil’s place while they pushed close, thirsting to live again. Wraiths plucked my sleeve. It couldn’t be helped. But is all this just in hindsight, or did burned slips of carbon drift past at the time, ash singeing my nostrils? I can’t stop thinking about what, if anything, I suspected. If there are parts I could have forestalled. I climbed five flights up Wyeth Hall. Soon, I was sitting in a windowsill, drink in hand. Nikhil sat next to me.
—in disguises? a girl asked him. She straddled the sill to his left, swinging a leg: she’d leaned toward him to be heard across the party’s noise.
We’re still talking about this? he said.
It’s all I can think about.
But that’s the problem.
They said more. I’d stopped listening. Behind us, I heard the light pop of a wine bottle opening. I thought I should get up to refill my glass, but I was unwilling to lose the sill. The airball inflated. Students crowded the lawn. They reached up, hundreds of open hands trying to swat the globe. Shouts swelled with each change in direction. The ball bounced, and rose: the beige sphere gleaming, a downed sun. It fell, then rolled. It soared again.
—in thinking they’re doing good, Nikhil said. Still, those girls’ deaths had to be an accident. It has to be the reason no one’s taking credit for the clinics. The bombers must have been pro-life, though I don’t like using that term—
I broke in. What clinics, I said. They both turned to me, astonished. I think I’d guessed while I asked. But as though I hadn’t, or as if, by pretending, I’d change a truth I didn’t want, I repeated the question.
* * *
–
I stayed long enough to establish that the girls who died had been identified as five local high-school students, and then I left Nikhil’s suite. Pausing at a newsstand, I bought papers. I scanned headlines while I walked. On Mitchell Street, a block from home, a van almost hit me. It swerved right, honking.
In the apartment, I opened my laptop. Hands shaking, I had to keep retyping search terms, but then I pulled up the news. Friday night, at 8:00, explosions had leveled five women’s health clinics in New York State, including in Noxhurst. The clinics had all provided abortions. Each clinic was the sole occupant of a building with an open parking lot. Initial reports indicated that truck bombs had been left next to load-bearing walls. The five girls belonged to a cheerleading squad. They’d been in the wide Noxhurst lot, practicing a routine, when the bomb exploded. Bodies had been retrieved, the girls’ involvement ruled out. With the repeated fives, it sounded fictitious, like the lead-in to a bad joke. I’d been alone in the carrel, studying. How hadn’t I heard about this, Nikhil had said. Didn’t I read the news, what had I been doing—
My phone had died, so I called Phoebe from the landline, a candy-red vintage rotary phone she’d found years ago in a Paris street market. I picked it up. It felt solid, reliable. Even the handset had weight. We’d installed the line in case I was needed at home while I had the cell phone on silent, since I was always afraid I’d miss a late-night call. Phoebe had objected, at first, but then she produced this shining relic.
You should have seen it when I bought it, she’d said, with pride, showing me the scratches she’d filled in, the extra polish. It had taken a long time to find a glaze that matched. She loved this phone. I was surprised she’d left it behind. Now, I noticed I’d let dust muddle its high gloss. I rubbed it with my shirt. But she was in Los Angeles. No one could fix a phone like this, then blow up five clinics.
The call didn’t go through, and it occurred to me the landline couldn’t dial long-distance numbers. I plugged in the cell phone. When it blinked on, I called Phoebe. I left a message. Talk to me, I said. Please. I waited, then I tried again.
32.
JOHN LEAL
If he could, he’d admit that, at times, it wasn’t simple. They’d pledged to fight in the service of the living God, and he’d learned to accept that faith is not a gift. It is not the object you receive intact, at once, by putting out a hand. Though long streamers of sunlight might fawn at his feet, faith came as the hard-won reward, battle spoils he wrested from the heaped debris. The wars to come would be a divine healing, in which the pure would not be killed.
33.
PHOEBE
The first time I played music for anyone else, Phoebe said, it was to audition with a well-known soloist. He didn’t think he wanted a child student, but one of my mother’s friends had urged him to give me a trial. Until then, I’d had no lessons: I sat at the piano because I loved what I could do. He stacked books on his bench. I climbed up, then I played as I always had. I stopped when the soloist pressed his hands into his eyes. I thought that, disliking what I’d done, he hoped to avoid looking at me. I didn’t care. I wasn’t sure I wanted the instruction; it felt artificial, like being taught to breathe. But then, he put his hands down, and I saw he was crying. He asked what I thought while I hit the keys. I told him that sound was trapped in the piano. I had to let it out.
So, you’ve heard the piano’s soul shining through, he said.
I couldn’t tell, at the time, what he meant. Now, though, I think he was right. It’s taken me a long while to recall what I was born knowing. I’ve visited the old Hilcox Street graves. People in those days died more often as infants, often within the first month of life. I’ve written down the inscriptions of children who barely lived. I’ll recite the names. What I’ve learned from grief is how superficial it is. I’m tired of being selfish. I had the single plea: Lord, I’m in pain. But I want to be useful. I’ll delight in God’s will, which is His grace toward me. If I act with faith, I don’t have to be afraid.
DAVID FITCH
SYBIL DAVIS
EZRA CATLIN
JOHN GIBB
LOUIS WHITING
MERIT WYETH
GILBERT MERRILL
SARAH ELLIS
CHRISTOPH POULSON
MATTHIAS HILCOX
PHILIP STILSON
MARION COIT
JULES DUCLOT
ISAIAH PIERSON
PHINEAS ALBIG
ELIPHELET BALL
MABEL LANG
NAOMI HOYLAND
JOSIAH MEIGS
IRVING PLATT
ELIHU RINEHART
BENJAMIN CHILTON
EZRA LEVITT
FRANCIS STILES
WILLIAM INGERSOLL
ELIJAH GIRD
DANIEL HALL
J. T. BRINTNAL
ELIPHELET LADD
&nbs
p; JULIET FALTIX
RUTH YUNDT
HEZEKIAH DAVIS
LEVI TALBOT
MERIT LAHN
JOHAN PURNELL
ITHIEL TODD
HAVILA FAUST
T. I. HOYT FEIT
NEWTON LANG
HORATIO COTTELL
DANIEL PLATT
FRANCIS JOSEPH COIT
BAVIL KING
MARIAH HALL
ITHIEL BUEL
ISAAC ALBURTIS
JOEL BOYD
LYDIA GIBB
MERIT TODD
EDWARD HOPKINS
NATHANIEL HOLLIN
JOEL BARTGIS
FIELDING BLAUVELT
GAIL LUNT
JABEZ BOYD GILBERT
ETHEL KIRK
TITUS MARTIN
MILES KEITH
OBADIAH PECHIN
FAITH HOYT PRATT
RICHARD WELLS
PHILIP NEWHALL
