The Mercy of Thin Air

by Ronlyn Domingue

  Praise for The Mercy of Thin Air

  “Debut novelist Domingue weaves a tapestry of lost spirits and misplaced loves.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] hopeful, inspired debut that lands [Domingue] sure-footedly on literary soil as a talented young novelist.”

  —The Hartford Courant

  “Blending the practical matters of marriage with the sentimental, Domingue has fashioned an emotionally satisfying story of love and longing.”

  —The Washington Post, reviewed by Meg Wolitzer, author of The Position and The Wife

  “Luminous, wise, tender, passionate, and compassionate, this book is special. Razi is a rare character, and her story opens like the petals of a flower. She makes me understand, all over again, the redemptive power of love. One to treasure.”

  —Posie Graeme-Evans, author of The Exiled

  “Superbly constructed, this is a story about the power of first love and the potency of memory. Domingue is a first-class writer.”

  —Irish Examiner

  “Domingue has a strong and distinctive voice. Razi, so determined, so lovely, is a heroine to cherish, and this exquisite love story reminds us that love is never really lost at all, that the thrill of touch—and memory—endures over time. . . . Anyone who’s ever fantasized about New Orleans in the ’20s will love this book, with its detailed descriptions of the city’s bygone glamour and the lives of women of the jazz age.”

  —The Times-Picayune (New Orleans)

  “[A]n engaging tale . . . In each plot, so different in time and place, Domingue takes a probing look at what produces strong and independent women.”

  —Booklist

  “Domingue’s unique protagonist might make readers change the way they think about ghosts—whether they believe in them or not.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  “Tracking an extraordinary love affair over nearly three-quarters of a century, The Mercy of Thin Air is a testament to the power of a love so strong it knows no bounds, even the seeming finality of death.”

  —BookPage

  “With lucid supple prose, Ronlyn Domingue weaves a gossamer tale suspended between two worlds. Her glimpse into the other side reveals the poignancy lurking behind our more mundane lives and loves. Flappers from a glamorous era of New Orleans high life linger and evanesce in this thoroughly modern dissection of thwarted love and the redeeming mercy of letting go. Readers, though, will find it difficult to let go of this moving debut by a remarkable talent well on her way to a distinguished career.”

  —James Wilcox, author of Heavenly Days

  “[A]n ethereal and eternal love story with images so luminous they lift off the paper.”

  —Paula Wall, bestselling author of The Rock Orchard

  “Dreaming about the New Orleans of yore? The haunting city you remember, the ‘land of dreamy dreams’? Th[is] book is for you. . . . It’s fiction you succumb to.”

  —The Commercial Appeal (Memphis)

  “Like The Lovely Bones, [The Mercy of Thin Air] makes the reader feel as if he’s died and gone to heaven.”

  —James Gordon Bennett, author of The Moon Stops Here

  “Domingue captures the equally repressive and uninhibited culture of 1920s America.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] beautifully written story . . . a holistic world where events and people are linked to each other in sometimes surprising ways. Finding answers is just a matter of sorting out the threads. That’s what Razi does, and any reader who joins her in her quest is in for a treat.”

  —The Advocate (Baton Rouge)

  “Domingue tells a fine story.”

  —Daily News (New York)

  “[Domingue] does very well by love, its near impossible demands and its transcendent rewards.”

  —The State (Columbia, S.C.)

  “Addictive and memorable.”

  —Easy Living magazine (UK)

  “Domingue’s attention to detail and obvious affection for her characters make this a book with broad appeal.”

  —The Charlotte Observer

  “Love and death come together in a mysterious union. Wonderful.”

  —Elle (Germany)

  “The Mercy of Thin Air is a stunning first novel illuminated by lucid prose, memorable characters, and intriguing ideas about the afterlife. It’s not a conventional ghost story in any sense, but it will haunt you long after you’ve read the final page.”

  —The News-Star (Monroe, La.)

  “In a word: Timeless.”

  —Townsville Bulletin (Australia)

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  Mapmaker’s War Excerpt

  About Ronlyn Domingue

  For Todd,

  my other whole

  And it is right that you should learn all things, both the persuasive, unshaken heart of Objective Truth, and the subjective beliefs of mortals, in which there is no true trust. But you shall learn these too: how, for the mortals, passing through them, the things-that-seem must “really exist,” being, for them, all there is.

  —Parmenides of Elea, “On Nature”

  Since for the time being there is no possibility whatever of a causal explanation, we must assume provisionally that improbable accidents of an acausal nature—that is, meaningful coincidences—have entered the picture.

  —C. G. Jung, “On Synchronicity”

  Where do I begin?

  I trace my outline in the photograph. From the crown of my head, blond curves sweep down and fringe at the ends. Each limb radiates from my body. The fingertips of my right hand touch the horizon. My left hand holds pure air. I follow along the periphery, where the contours turn, head to toe, side to side.

  My body is not the one I was born into. In all the moments of breathing, each cell took its turn at the cycle: growth, repair, decay. But I still remain.

  Nothing of me is mine to keep, other than memory.

  In the snapshot, Twolly waves from her side of the seesaw. Her left hand is fog above her elbow. She wears the purple dress that made her face luminous in contrast. She smiles wide, pale lips drawn into a perfect arc.

  Unseen, Andrew. He had used four rolls of film by the end of the afternoon. He juggled the cylinders in his pocket as the three of us walked out of the park. I touched the square silver cuff link engraved with his initials, APO, and leaned into him. Please, tell me your middle name. He said nothing and teased me with a subtle smile. Without a word, I traced a path down his right arm, and he reached toward the familiar territory of my hand as if he expected a surprise.

  I hold the photograph so tight, so long, every open space within me fills with a consummate ache.

  PART ONE

  SIMON BEEKER had been dead four months.

  I did not know this when I approached his house for a belated visit. Because I was no longer in the habit of skimming obituaries, I missed the announcement.

  The last time I had seen Simon, in early 1991, he was seventy-four. He sat in his crimson study, his elbows angled on the arms of a worn leather chair. I watched him turn the pages of a new biography—the spine crepitated under his grip—and noticed his eyes taking in ea
ch paragraph, quick and hungry. That quality had never changed about him. As a boy, he had been a collector of knowledge who sneaked into Andrew’s room to read books a page at a time between odd jobs.

  There in the study was Andrew’s bookcase. The piece was an outdated Eastlake-inspired design when Andrew’s aunt willed it to him, but he loved it because the shelves held books two rows deep. Before he left to go to law school, Andrew gave his mother permission to sell or give away what didn’t go with him. He left dozens of books, several fine suits, and the bookcase. When Emmaline, their housekeeper, asked for the historical texts, Andrew insisted that she take everything. Emmaline gave it all to Simon, her long-boned, far-sighted grandson.

  On the day of that visit, when Simon was seventy-four, I stayed only a few moments. I had not been near the bookcase in several decades. The smell I detected in the closed spaces made me anxious, lonesome. With barely a stir, I left. His wife asked him if he felt a draft as she stepped into the room to hand him a cup of coffee. He turned his dark face and sage eyes toward her and answered he had not.

  Now, twelve years later, he was dead. The urge to see him again had come far too late.

  I knew Simon was gone when I neared his little bungalow and saw the hand-lettered sign: Estate Sale. Cars parked on the banquettes on both sides of the street. Books, kitchen items, blankets, knickknacks, and furniture cluttered the tiny front yard. People made claim to Simon’s possessions, holding them tightly in their arms.

  There was the bookcase, in perfect condition, the only antique on the lawn. A small man in pince-nez glasses approached it with arms wide. He dropped to his knees reverently and opened the two drawers to inspect them. Like a billow of smoke from a snuffed flame, a scent I had not smelled in many years escaped the cool, dark hollows. This time, I did not avoid it. The little man began to shiver.

  Andrew’s essence drew outward, then stalled. The particles suspended in a dense concentration of cold, still air. I held the salty tinge within me for the length of a breath, before anything more could make an escape, before I could linger on the question, What happened to him?

  As the air warmed, I noticed a rich, mature scent, one that had more strength but less power. That was Simon, whose hands had rubbed a chestnut patina into the glass doors as long as I’d been gone. He would have wanted the bookcase protected. I stood guard with cold drafts, waiting.

  By late morning, a couple wandered through the remaining odds and ends at the sale. The young woman spotted the bookcase, shadowed by a redbud tree in new leaf. She opened the doors. As she reached inside to inspect the shelves, she breathed deeply. A comforting aroma, almost a blend of pipe smoke and cinnamon, surrounded her.

  “Scott. It’s perfect for the room, don’t you think? And it’s not musty or mildewed inside. I like the scent,” she said.

  He pulled a tape measure from his pocket. “Good fit. We haven’t seen a nicer one anywhere. Great condition.”

  “I see something in a crack.” She stretched deep over the last shelf. As small as she was, she could have crawled inside. When she withdrew, there was a copy of Family Limitation in her hand, which she eagerly began to skim. She grabbed Scott’s arm and made him read a passage about unsatisfied women and nervous conditions.

  “I must have this,” she said. “It would complement my mementos from our Condom Sense Days in college. Remember?” Her eyes flickered.

  “Oh, I remember.” He flipped through the fragile pages. “You’re lucky those Bible thumpers didn’t whip themselves into a bigger frenzy and beat the crap out of all of you.” Scott read several paragraphs. “Hey, Amy—women used to douche with Lysol?”

  “Lysol? Let me see that.”

  I liked her because she reminded me of myself. I liked him because her brazen little nature didn’t scare him. They were darling together. She slipped the pamphlet back into its place and began to inspect the exterior wood.

  “Interested?” One of Simon’s granddaughters had his quiet look in her eyes. “Mamma,” she shouted, “what are you asking for the bookcase?”

  A woman poked her head around a porch column. “Five hundred.”

  Amy suppressed a grin and reached into her large, cluttered purse. Scott jumped to catch a small notebook as it fell. “I don’t think we have enough cash. Would you take an out-of-town check?” she asked.

  “Not usually. But you two look honest enough.” Simon’s granddaughter put a money box on the ground and pushed the sleeves of her baggy Tulane sweatshirt to her elbows. “You’re going to give it a good home, right? I don’t want my grandfather rolling over in his grave.”

  Amy looked at her. “You don’t want to keep it?”

  “No one in the family likes Victorian. It’s time for it to belong to someone else.”

  Scott told the young woman that they would have to arrange a delivery to their home in Baton Rouge. She pulled a pen and paper from the money box. “Sarah Washington, that’s my mom. You can make the check out to her. This is her cell phone number. Call her and set up a date. She’ll make sure someone is here.”

  In block print, Amy wrote several phone numbers next to their names—Amy Richmond and Scott Duncan. “Here are ours, too, just in case.”

  The young woman took the check, and they wished each other a good day.

  Scott wrapped his arm around Amy’s shoulders. She briefly laid her auburn head against his chest. “What a bargain,” she said.

  “With a free turn-of-the-century sex manual.”

  “Birth control guide.”

  “What do we need that for?” He patted her at the navel once before she pulled away.

  AMY FOUND six more marbles as she dug new flower beds in the front yard. When she came in to take a bath, she dropped them into a shallow bowl on the coffee table. I rubbed the filth from the one I liked best, a dark blue cat’s-eye, and rolled it back and forth on the floor.

  “Did you remember to buy a mousetrap?” Scott yelled from the room where he searched for the dictionary in the bookcase.

  “Why?”

  “That mouse is playing with a marble again.” Scott told Amy that when he was a child, he investigated a midnight noise in his kitchen. There he trapped a mouse in his flashlight’s glare. It sat up, sweet as you please, with a marble between its paws, then scampered under the stove. Scott was convinced that a mouse had found Amy’s growing marble collection and had begun to scatter it across the house.

  I heard him make his way from the front room into the larger of the two bathrooms. Over the rush of the water, he told her that he wanted to discuss it again. A baby. He had mentioned the topic, briefly, several times in the past few days. “It’s spring,” he said. “Nature’s way of setting the mood.”

  “Rutting season is in the fall.”

  “For animals with two horns.”

  I always appreciated such a sense of humor.

  The steamy hint of supper floated into the living room. He had checked on the skillet of shrimp seared with butter and garlic. A twinge of fresh lemon caught an air current as the pasta boiled.

  One more moment, and—

  “Aims, why did you move everything around in the drawers and cabinets?”

  In the two weeks since I arrived, their sense of order had been upended. They found their belongings rearranged or relocated. Radio stations changed at whim, books lay open in strange places, and odd knocks disturbed the house’s silence. Now and then, marbles fell from the air conditioner registers and rolled across the slightly sloped floor. Their bemusement entertained me.

  The first week, each blamed the other for the way the TV and CD player turned off when they neared and turned on when they stepped away. Scott changed the batteries in the remote controls three times. When it continued to happen, after I removed the batteries altogether, they stood in the middle of the living room and giggled. They laughed at the absurdity until they started to roar, tangled in each other’s arms. Minutes later, a trail of clothing led down the hall.

  That’s wha
t they would miss most, I thought, the occasional spontaneity. That’s why neither one would decide it was time to have a baby. I was tempted to pin-prick her diaphragm and leave his rubbers in sunlight, to force a decision. But that was against what I always believed. I also didn’t meddle so directly.

  An hour later, Scott entered the living room naked with a glass of orange juice in his hand. I had been amusing myself by spinning the marbles in elliptical orbits around the ceiling fan. They fell when he entered the room. Scott turned his face to the air register in mid-sip, and a drop of pale orange liquid pulled at the edge of his chin. My incorporeal lip went slack with the memory of once eating five satsumas in a row, the acid so subtle that the sweetness masked it until the last bite. I imagined lifting the droplet away with the outline of my tongue, but the taste would have been vague. Seeing the drip suspended in the air would have made him blooey to bits.

  “We have to do something about these mice,” he said.

  Amy snapped him on the rear with a pair of boxer briefs.

  His straight, broad shoulders reminded me of Andrew’s.

  AMY AND SCOTT’S neighborhood was peaceful. Except for the occasional power tool or shout of a distant child, all I heard was the soft rush of morning and evening traffic and the wind. I was not accustomed to the relative silence, so different from the piercing whine of New Orleans. I remembered when my hometown had not been so busy, crowded, unbalanced. Once there were quiet strolls, long conversations, clanking streetcars, slow thin tires on gravel—a warm hum of activity. Year by year, the volume of it all increased by exponents. I regretted but depended on the chaos. I needed it to lull me, the noise like a persistent thought.

  I slipped into the comfy rocking chair in the front room of my new home. It was almost midnight. The house was asleep and snoring, the way old ones do, with their creaks, groans, and cracks. To my right, the bookcase covered a narrow wall, but its presence filled more than the space. The porch light illuminated pits and waves in the glass bookcase doors. I turned away from the points of reflection.