The Mercy of Thin Air

by Ronlyn Domingue

  “And I told him if he ever listened to another head doctor again, I’d shave him bald and have him tied to the Cabildo,” she spits, then does so literally, an enormous pool of old fop drool right over the porch railing.

  Grams left the room, that domestic cell her husband made for her, convinced she’d been talking to her dead sister for several weeks. She had no serious religious convictions before, but she became an ardent spiritualist thereafter, who regularly sat among spirit circles. I got the heebie-jeebies every time I heard her talk about it when I was little. Then I learned to read and laughed myself sick over those stupid Fox girls, who tricked everyone into believing their clickety-clackety toe joints were the rappings of one Mr. Splitfoot.

  “I don’t think that was your sister. You were hallucinating.”

  “She came from the Summer-Land to speak to me. She knew I missed her so.”

  Grams doesn’t know I’ve read all the ancient copies of her Andrew Jackson Davis books. She believes in a heavenlike Summer-Land that Davis claimed was fifty million miles away from Earth. A place where spirits reunite with their true partners and parents and float around in a state of perpetual learning. She believes they can be called to Earth to communicate with the living. That slaughters me.

  “Now, Grams.”

  “It’s true. Your grandfather himself, God rest his soul, sent me a message from beyond.”

  “The medium played a trick on you.”

  “Your grandfather apologized, Raziela.”

  I know better than to tell her what I saw from my hiding place under the davenport at that séance. Grams would refuse to believe me anyway. The medium wrote Grandfather’s name on an envelope and attached it to the edge of the table where she sat. On another identical envelope, she wrote his name again. She gave that envelope and a blank card to Grams and told her to write a name, date, or phrase—a clue for the spirit. When Grams handed the sealed envelope containing her secret note to the medium, the woman switched it with the one she’d hidden earlier. As the fake card was burned to invoke the spirit, the medium quickly read Grams’s message through the thin envelope. Is he sorry? it must have read.

  “Your grandfather and I, we shared a love till the end, in spite of it all.”

  I know something about love, almost. Jimmy Reynolds had slipped me a note two weeks earlier.

  Do you like me?

  __Yes __No

  I checked yes and left it tucked in his arithmetic book while the boys played baseball in an empty lot. The next day, he kissed me with an exaggerated pucker. I wondered what it would have felt like had his lips been flat and soft.

  “Just you wait until it happens to you. You’ll want nothing more than to devote yourself to him and the precious babies with which you’ll be blessed,” my grandmother says, as always.

  I have something new to say. “I don’t know if I want babies.” My fingertips twist my braids into beardy-faced serpents. “I’m interested in other things.”

  “A girl should have interests. But eventually you’ll have babies, too.”

  “Not if I don’t want to.”

  Grams laughs. “Oh, dear, that’s quite impossible.”

  “No, ma’am. I read it. Women in Europe have been not having babies for years.”

  “Women in Europe?” Grams doesn’t have much tolerance for Europeans. Their squabbles took her youngest son in the Great War two years ago. Uncle Roger had wanted to kill some Huns with the pointed helmets off their own heads.

  “Yes, ma’am. It says so in a pamphlet by a Mrs. Sanger.”

  Grams’s peepers widen. “Who is she?”

  “A nurse. She tells poor ladies about not having children.”

  “And what else have you read by this Mrs. Sanger?”

  “Nothing.” I am lying. At Mrs. Delacourt’s house, I also skimmed two copies of a magazine I hadn’t seen before. I agreed with what I read. I thought it made perfect sense to help women not have babies they didn’t want and to keep them healthy for the ones they did.

  “Listen to me, Raziela. It’s a woman’s duty to have children. It’s a blessing. Think of all those little souls waiting to come into the world. Who are we to stop them?”

  “Maybe not all women are supposed to be mothers.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “What if, though? What if they’re not?”

  “Then what are they to be?”

  “How about an aviator? Or an artist? Or a doctor?”

  “There is no higher aspiration than motherhood, Raziela. You’ll learn soon enough.”

  That night, I hide Family Limitation, the pamphlet I’d taken from Mrs. Delacourt, in one of my favorite books. I fall asleep angry. My Grams, who never forgave my grandfather for punishing her worldly curiosity, expects me to meet the same fate.

  Never. I vow to myself that I will become a doctor some day, to give any woman a choice between becoming a mother of six or a mother of invention.

  I HAD BECOME RESTLESS spending the days in the rocking chair near the bookcase. One evening, I followed Amy and Scott on a weekend date. After a dinner of pizza, wine, and cheesecake, they stopped by a bookstore.

  They perused the new releases with cursory interest until Scott said he wanted to look in the religion section. Amy read several book covers, glancing back at authors’ names. She skimmed a volume on contemporary interior design. Two teenage girls walked past as she read, commenting on her tangerine Nehru jacket. Amy did not notice them or the blond man surreptitiously watching her from the discount racks. Amy tucked a wave of auburn hair behind her seashell ear, which made the man twitch his brown eyes. He wore a well-pressed shirt and flat-front black trousers. Without a doubt, he had shaved an hour earlier. I knocked a book to the floor to see what he would do. Amy reached to grab it.

  “Here, let me get that,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a polite but distant smile.

  He ran a hand down his arm slowly, smoothing a creaseless sleeve. He didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps care, that she wore a wedding ring. “Like mysteries, do you?”

  “It depends.”

  “I like mysteries, too. Especially real ones.”

  Amy nodded. She was absolutely oblivious.

  “Are you visiting the United States?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “You have a European aesthetic. That’s a lovely beret. It goes with your eyes.” He leaned against the closest upright book rack. He pushed his shirt buttons flat from his sternum to his waist.

  “I like your shoes,” she said.

  From my location, I saw Scott coming down the escalator, his hands empty. He spotted Amy and the harmless masher. He squinted, but not in suspicion. He seemed to want a better look at the man who was making up to his wife. When he reached the floor, Scott turned left, smiled with something that looked like amusement, and wandered into the stacks. Amy didn’t see him pass by.

  “I was thinking about getting some coffee. Is the coffee shop in here any good?” he asked. “This is my first visit.”

  A flabbergasted laugh ruptured through my form and revealed itself as a loud pop in the air. Amy looked toward the sound. “Lightbulb must have blown.” She glanced at the second level of the store and then at her watch. “Oh, yes, the coffee is fine here, dark roast especially. Have a good night.”

  He watched her walk away, visibly stunned by his lack of success.

  Amy found Scott crouched near the ground, reading titles sideways.

  “Good conversation?” he asked.

  “With who? Oh, that guy. Chatty fellow.”

  “I’m sure.” Scott stood up and reached for a book that lay flat on the top shelf. “Ready?”

  “What’d you get?” she asked. He handed it to her. “Tantric sex.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “I read about it in the Hinduism book you got me. And there was some mention in the Buddhist stuff I’ve read, too.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Sex that is beyond sex.” He to
ok her hand.

  Amy grinned. “At least you’re never boring.”

  Back at home, Scott put his new book on top of his puzzle-in-progress and went to take a shower. Amy collected the mail from under the brass slot in the front door. I followed her into the kitchen. She dropped it all in a pile on the counter. With a cautious smile, she opened a package wrapped in brown paper. There was a note taped on top of a videodisc.

  Dear Aims—

  Look what I found during the excitement of my move. I thought you might like this little flashback. You mention your grandparents. Fond memory maybe. That’s all I’ll say. How’s Scott? Tell Captain Jigsaw I miss him. I miss you both.

  Love,

  Chloe

  Amy held it to her chest. Her expression shifted from fondness to nostalgia to dread. She crept into the sitting room and hid the DVD in one of the bookcase’s drawers, below a layer of stationery and boxed cards.

  “What’d we get in the mail?” Scott yelled from the bathroom.

  “Bills, coupons.”

  I hovered into the rocker when she left the room. I could detect Andrew’s scent even though Amy had closed the drawers evenly. It was stronger than usual, and I knew I was responsible for fueling it, even though I didn’t want to. I caught myself humming to compete with the drone that became more intense every time I thought of him and that pulse that I missed.

  THE LAST FRIEND I ever made between was Lionel.

  Most of the ones who stayed between opted for the unknown—what was beyond—within weeks after their deaths. For them, the experience was too disconcerting, in conflict with all they had been taught or imagined about what happens after the body stopped. The ones who didn’t leave so soon kept company with their former interests or discovered new ones to keep them busy. In a blur of days, months, decades, they learned not to think too much.

  But Lionel thought all the time. In two years, he figured out why he had avoided physics, Italian, and cello lessons. Every task he meant to do in life, he completed. Every moment that shaped him, he understood. The accomplishments and knowledge illuminated him in a way no one could have expected.

  As one of my pupils, Nel questioned every lesson he received. As my friend, he questioned me. Why are you still here? he asked, especially toward the end, when he knew he would go. What are you afraid of? I couldn’t answer, even though I trusted him.

  “Find out what happened to Andrew, and you’ll find out what happened to you,” he always said. I ignored him, until the last time. He was going beyond in seven days, exactly two years after he died. He would not celebrate the beginning of 2002 with me.

  I went along for his final visits because he asked for my company. Nel wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye to the ones he had befriended during his time between. For me, every moment had been a constant reminder that he would soon be gone for good. When we arrived at his old apartment, the place he had last breathed, I did not say a word.

  “Why the long face?” Nel asked. “Did somebody die?”

  I smirked.

  “I’ll sing. It’ll make you feel better.” He opened his mouth, and I pitched a dirty coffee mug through the hole. “Bitchy today, aren’t we?”

  “Don’t take it personally. I’m going to miss you.”

  Nel flopped back an inch above the sofa. He fixed his big hazel eyes on me. “Honey, it’s time. I’m done.”

  “I know.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Nel.”

  “What if there is something next?”

  “Stop.”

  “Come see. I have something to show you.”

  The man who lived in Nel’s former apartment never turned off his computer. Nel grabbed the mouse, found an Internet search site, and popped my edge. I finally looked at him, but not at his hand. I couldn’t watch him in the act of touching. His entire form was obscured by a bright haze that surrounded him, as if he moved through water. The glow was unnerving but beautiful.

  Nel typed quickly, the name Andrew O’Connell. I realized what Nel was about to do. He wanted to find my Andrew for me.

  For decades, I believed I had followed my sweetheart at a distance, bending the rule about following people one had loved. At least once a year, I would take pen to the air and scrawl a couple of notes in my antiquated script. Out to the post office they went, delivered to people who forwarded news clippings about one Andrew O’Connell. The return address for this information often changed. However, those good folks who stayed in their jobs long enough remembered me and occasionally attached messages to their mysterious penfriend, Barrett Burrat. They wished me luck on the biography that was taking years to write.

  Only months before, one of those kind people sent me an obituary for the man whose life I had followed. I had never questioned whether I tracked the right person because—in name, action, and deed—the man had led the life I expected my Andrew to have, the life he had planned. But there, in that obituary, never mentioned in any other clipping I ever received, was the name of this stranger’s birthplace, a small town in Illinois. My Andrew had been born in New Orleans. Of that, I was absolutely certain. So in fact, I had no idea what happened to Andrew after he left with two full suitcases and tickets to New Haven in his jacket pocket.

  “Razi, dammit, don’t look away,” Nel said as the screen flashed a page of new words. He created a list of every Andrew O’Connell who had died in the last forty years. “I’ve reviewed these records. None of these men was born the year Andrew was. Not even within a year or two.”

  “Your point?”

  “That Andrew of yours might still be alive. Look at this.” In seconds, he created another list. I stared. More than four hundred and fifty instances of his name. “It would take you less than half a day to glance at these sites. What if he’s here?”

  I filled with heat, and the electronics in the apartment buzzed, flickered, then shut off. “Why do you insist on tormenting me?”

  “You did it to yourself. Why’d you track him if you never really wanted to find him?”

  “I didn’t need to find him. When I sent letters, I expected nothing but reassurance that he had become the man I believed he would be. You have to understand, all the pieces made sense. And you know the rule, Nel, for goodness sake.”

  “Yes, the rule.” He glanced at the dining room table. An envelope floated toward me and landed next to the vapor of my hand. “I have something else for you. Maybe this is a start in a new direction. When you’re ready.”

  I saw the Yale University emblem on the top left. It was addressed to Mr. Barrett Burrat. Even in his meddling, Lionel was thoughtful, using my pen name.

  As I opened the letter from Yale, I let a part of him escape. Andrew’s scent infused me, a clean metallic brine that deepened with heat. How often I worked not to think of him, or anyone, for more than an instant. To linger was to tempt an inevitable hemorrhage of memory, almost impossible to control. After my last breath, every moment of my life was revealed perfectly intact, the recollection effortless, the connections among them fluid and associative. I could never predict precisely what would come back to me.

  “What does it say?” Nel asked.

  “It just confirms what I knew. I did follow a stranger. And it says that my Andrew didn’t graduate from Yale—ever. This other man—I knew he had graduated in 1933, the year after my Andrew was supposed to. I assumed he took extra time to finish his studies, all things considered. But it appears that’s not the case.” I incinerated the letter in midair.

  “I can’t imagine what happened between you two, but it had to be pretty bad for someone as smart as you to dupe yourself for so long. You know, you could tell me finally. Talk about taking a secret to the grave. It’s almost beyond that at this point.” Nel smirked at his double entendre, his features soft behind the glow. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry—for whatever it was.”

  I suddenly remembered Andrew’s face, in sunlight, the first time I stretched my naked body on top of his, the w
hisper of his hands down my back, the relish in his voice as he exhaled, My little succubus.

  Release me. Let me go. Please.

  —stunned—naked—

  blue flame—bright light—white blur—

  warm blood—still blood—broken glass

  —blue light broken—

  ANDREW AWAKES long after the sun rises, and dresses in a daze. Six weeks of grief has made him unsteady, but today he is debilitated, drunk with it. He stumbles as he reaches for his wristwatch and bumps his injured hand. His eyes go blank with visceral rage. As the focus returns, he moves with singular purpose toward the center of his bedroom doorway. He leaves the house for lunch without uttering a greeting to his mother or Emmaline. They glance at each other, unaccustomed to such a lapse in his manners. They have no idea what last night brought in, other than the storm. They speak of the thunder now, because they can’t speak of Andrew’s silence.

  Confused and distraught, I wander for several miles, moving southeast toward the river. I suddenly realize that I must see Eugenia, the Confederate lady Noble considers a friend. She is always in the same place, circling the grounds of her old home in this old neighborhood with manic regularity. I fall in step beside her and tell her the elementary details, all that she needs to know.

  “Whatever were you thinking?” she asks.

  “How much I miss the feel of him.” This is only a fraction of the truth.

  “Oh, goodness. No one told you? Touch will never come back.”

  I am horrified. After weeks of trying, I had learned to create the semblance of a solid form. I was aware that my density was not matter, not as I had been before, but a knit of energy. Several times, I had allowed myself under Andrew’s hands, briefly, to practice. I was impatient but certain that sensation would return in time. What was left of me would relearn—remember—how to feel.

  I stand next to Eugenia as she repeats the last twitching dance of her physical life. She does this every day at noon sharp. Only months after the War Between the States ended, she had been stung to death, right there in her garden.