“I also think that our evolution’s progress makes us curious about the function of nature. Many people might argue, Razi,” he says, pointing at me, “that birth control is unacceptable, but I say that the effort to limit one’s family size is a conscious, deliberate act by a being who follows his—or her—own inquisitive nature. Therefore, it seems obvious to me that those who oppose birth control are opposing the course of nature itself—man’s own wish to understand and control his world.”
“What next?” Alan asks. “We’ll control the weather?”
“No, but just like certain impulses, we’ll know when it’s coming,” I say, and turn to Andrew. He reaches for a cigarette but watches me with his peripheral vision.
The rest of the night isn’t quite as serious once the girls join us. Anna tells Warren to stop goading Andrew into provocative conversations and ruining a perfectly enjoyable party. Warren kisses her cheek when she calls him incorrigible. After some begging, Tom shows off the new tunes he has learned on the ukulele. Andrew doesn’t sing along with the rest of us. He sits on the settee and taps his foot. Once, I catch him looking at me. He hides a grin in the empty cup he keeps raising to his mouth. I wink to let him know I know he’s been watching.
As Andrew drives me home, we talk about the after-dinner conversation. He claims he has never known a girl so direct. The comment is straightforward, an observation. However, I know from the way he looks at me that he remains intrigued. I tell him that I’ve never met anyone who defended birth control as an evolutionary outcome. He admits that he’d read articles on the topic. The position is logically defensible, he says, and it raises the ire of those who argue from irrational, subjective religious beliefs.
“I had a wonderful time,” I say as the roadster stops in front of my house. “I’m still impressed that your friends were so cordial, even through our touchy debate.”
“Good breeding.”
I laugh. “Well, good night. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for joining me.” He doesn’t move to get out of the roadster to come around and open my door. His eyes dance from my eyes to my mouth and back again, my cue to move closer.
We kiss a bit longer than we have before. He has started to relax a little, but he is still chaste compared to what I’m accustomed to. I’ve moved faster with boys I’ve known for five hours, much less five weeks. Andrew’s hands haven’t even wandered yet. When the kiss ends, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and don’t let go. He hugs me back but seems uncomfortable, as if he’s not used to being held so close so long.
He walks me to the porch steps and doesn’t leave until I wave to him once I get inside.
I CLOSE THE DOOR behind me, lean against its cool, thick leaded-glass panels, and listen to the O’Connell’s automobile drive away. My grandmother sits on the davenport under the amber glow of her favorite lamp.
“When do we get to meet this young man, Raziela?” Grams does not look up from her magazine.
“Soon. If he’s a keeper.”
My father walks into the room. He is a beautiful man whose full head of silver-streaked dark brown hair and dark eyes bring attention to his angular features. There are days I expect to see him with his long-gone beard and mustache, the way I remember him from my childhood. He locks his gentle, long-lashed calf eyes on me as he bends into his wingback. “Had a good evening?”
“Yes, Daddy.” I remove my coat.
“So—” He flips his newspaper in front of his face. “Why are you still hiding him, this Andrew?” He is dying of curiosity, I know. He lives to use that gruff paternal voice on the boys who pass through my life. He feels like he’s doing an important job.
“I’m not hiding him.”
“You could’ve invited him in, you know.” Daddy doesn’t look up from the newsprint. “It’s not that late.”
“Next time. I promise.”
“Did you hear that, Lily?” he says to my grandmother. “There’s a next time.”
Grams pushes her cheaters along the bridge of her nose and stares at me. Hard. I stand there with my coat in my hands, biting my bottom lip.
“Oh, heavens. She’s in love.”
“No, I’m not.”
My father puts down his paper and looks at me, too. Suddenly, I notice my mother standing at the base of the stairs. She is dressed for bed. Her long blond hair is pulled back with a stretch of crimson ribbon that drapes across her shoulder. She is barefoot, as she is every night, no matter the season. My family peers at me with sentimental grins softening their faces.
“You’re giving me the jim-jams. Stop it. We’ve only had a few dates.” I put my coat on the nearby rack.
“You know already.” Grams turns back to her magazine.
“What, are you clairvoyant now, Grams?” I walk into the room, heading for the kitchen.
Daddy reaches out and grabs my hand as I pass. He holds tight so that I can’t brush away from him. I look down at my father who—I swear—has a tear in his eye. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses me on the knuckles. A rush of affection floods me, and I resist the temptation to fall into his love as I am now, to hug him the way only little girls can hug their daddies. Instead, I squeeze his hand and kiss him on the cheek, knowing that he has let me go, a little further, from his protective reach.
WILL ANDREW SURVIVE his first dinner with my family?
When he arrives, I leave him alone while I pour drinks for everyone. It is for the best, really, because one true test of whether a boy is worth keeping is if he can endure my father’s hrumph-hrumph-hrumphing and Grams’s prying into his relations. Mother has much better manners; the motives behind her questions are far less transparent. On purpose, I drop several forks and an old juice glass to stall for time. So, Andrew, what area of law interests you most? Your father’s people: where in Ireland did they come from? Razi took piano when she was little; were you musically trained?
Mother peeks her head from the butler’s pantry into the kitchen. I toss the glass shards into the garbage can. Bright, well-spoken, she says as she removes Cornish hens from the oven. Your father is barely torturing him. I think he’s smitten. I smother my laughter as I take the tray into the parlor. They are clustered around a framed photo of me on the wall near the stairs, next to Grandfather and Uncle Roger. Andrew turns first. His shoulders drop comfortably—most boys are in knots by now—and he smiles more with his eyes than the curl of his mouth. Grams takes his arm as they make their way to sit again. Oh, he has charmed her somehow. Daddy’s voice is almost normal, the alpha growl nearly a congenial arf. We drink tea and discuss the huge parade the city held for Charles Lindbergh, an event my father advertised.
Mother calls us to the table. The meal is delicious, the conversation pleasant, and out of nowhere, I feel an unease that makes me want to run. The nervousness isn’t the tickly-prickly anticipation of being with a new crush, or the sinking-gut dread of pending disaster, or the gastric butterfly battle to the death of a public moment. All is well. All is so very well. Andrew fits so well among them. I watch my father and Andrew lean toward each other in a verbal spar over city politics—and grin as they do it. I realize that I wanted Daddy to disapprove again, to give me a reason I’ve never used before to turn a boy loose. In fact, I want them all to adore Andrew as much as I do.
I ignore the squirmy feeling of my skin once Mother brings out her excellent carrot cake and dark roasted coffee. Daddy offers Andrew a shot of whiskey for his beverage, which he accepts. My respectably roguish father splashes a drop into my cup, too, without asking. After the talk and eating is over, I help Mother clear the dishes. She puts her hands on my shoulders and kisses my cheek. I like him, she says. You have a good eye, sweetheart. The dining room is empty when I return. Grams says her good-nights. She has captured Andrew’s hand like a kitten and pats it softly. I kiss her before she goes upstairs. Daddy, I can tell, wants to stay up to chat, but Mother creeps behind him, takes his arm, and suppresses a yawn into his shoulder. She re
minds me to turn off the back porch light before I go to bed, such an odd little tone in her voice when she says it. My parents shake hands with Andrew, perfectly ebullient about having met him. They each kiss me and disappear up the stairs. I hear Daddy half-whisper, Quite a fellow my baby girl found herself.
Tonight, the air smells like copper, a sweet clean coldness that makes every breath snap on the way in. Andrew stands straight with his hands flat on the porch rail looking into the backyard. I’m curled under my peacock blue coat on the swing. The light is off. I flipped the switch before we came outside.
“Nice evening,” he says. “Clear. Polaris is rather bright.”
I duck and peer up to the North Star. “Astronomical aspirations?”
He gives a quick laugh but keeps his back to me. “I learned the constellations when I was little. My father likes astronomy. He taught me. At one time, I believed the mythological creatures and objects were truly there, held in place by giant pins. The light points of their configurations, you see. I thought if any of those pins came loose, they would be at the mercy of thin air—and they’d fall to the ground and crush me. So for a couple of years, I’d only go outside on cloudy nights. I decided that would give them something on which to land, other than me.” When he turns around, he’s a silhouette. “Quite an imagination.”
For a moment, I cannot speak. He has charmed me to pieces. “I’ll say. I appreciate creative minds.”
“Speaking of which. Your family is entertaining,” Andrew says. “I like them.”
“They have a collective crush on you.”
“I thought this went well.”
“You showed no sign of intimidation. You looked my father in the eye when you spoke. If Daddy senses fear, he’s simply awful, like a spy interrogator.”
“Interesting. He didn’t strike me that way.”
“Of course not. You foiled his strategy.”
“Have you lost many dates because of him?”
I laugh. “I didn’t let him meet them all.” My arms work into the coat sleeves. “Your parents are next.”
“If you’re certain.”
“Don’t you want to retaliate?”
“Hardly seems fair. Your parents and grandmother were so pleasant.”
“Raised by goblins?”
“They’re different. Less spirited, much older. Mother used to call me their miracle. She was forty-three when I was born. She was tempted to name me Isaac.”
“Were there others?”
“I suspect so. Perhaps none that were formally buried.”
“What’s she like?”
He slips his hands into his pockets. “A walking etiquette book. She went to finishing school when it was fashionable to do so. Had I been a girl, I’m quite certain that’s where I’d be now.”
“Horrors. What else?”
“She gives time to an orphanage, her charity work. It gives her something important to do. She’s very devout. Catholic, of course. She goes to Adoration once a week, never misses mass on holy days of obligation, certainly not a Sunday.”
“Were you an altar boy?”
“I sometimes dream in Latin—and not because I’ve studied it.”
“You poor boy.”
“Mother isn’t so bad. She just never seems to have enough fun.”
“And your father?”
“Smart in a shrewd way. He’s a banker. You knew that. He’s keen on bonds. That’s his specialty. He likes to play the market, too, but doesn’t trust it. He says it’s like a woman—susceptible to gossip, whims, and disaster. I apologize. Father has old-fashioned notions about things. At any rate, he keeps his bank safe, his own money safer. The only stocks he’s focused on these days are for telephone and radio corporations. The future, he says.”
“Did he say why?”
“People like noise, especially their own.”
“What a funny little rationale.”
“He may be right.”
“Our fathers might like each other. Daddy thinks good advertising hits at the intersection between inadequacy and vanity.” I stand and stretch my arms overhead. We are only a few steps apart. “Well, if I’m to figure you out properly, I’m going to have to meet your parents at some point.”
“Is that so important?”
“Do I make more sense to you now?”
“At least now I know where you got your eyes.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“What a line.” At first, I almost kiss him. That doesn’t seem right. There’s a sadness, a little emptiness that revealed itself in his voice, something I didn’t catch before. Without any hesitant prelude, I hug him lightly around the waist. My head fits into his throat.
His arms fold around my shoulders. Within seconds, he tries to glance at his wristwatch. “I should be on my way.”
“Are you tired?” I ask as he steps back.
“Not quite.”
“Come here.”
“Why?”
“Come here.”
He steps toward me, and I hold him again. His arms are stiff, unyielding.
“Relax, Andrew.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“It’s getting late.”
“I doubt it’s even close to eleven.”
“Honestly.”
“Hush.” I wrap a little tighter. Through the muffle of his lapel, I hear his heartbeat.
“Razi.”
“I need a hug.”
“All right.”
Within a few moments, he sighs quietly and bends into me. His chin rests on the crown of my head. Our contours meet with precision. I realize that our breathing has slipped into echoes, out, in, answering each other. I am tempted to mention this but afraid that it will stop if I do. At the hip, he starts a pendulum motion, so subtle at first it cannot be deliberate. The swing works upward to our shoulders until I feel the dull give and tension past my buttery knees into my calves. Each rhythm, heart, breath, sway, is harmonic through our blood and skin. My eyes shut—the sound and feel enough—and when I open them again, I notice the moon has chosen a new place to rest.
What is this . . . this ache when I pull away?
“Now it’s late,” I tell him.
Through my house at a quarter past midnight—the grandfather clock tells me so—he follows me to the front door. I beg the creak to whisper, and it obliges. Now on the porch, Andrew thanks me for the evening, pauses, and bends for a kiss. It’s supple, gentle. He hugs me suddenly, pecks my forehead as he lets go. I watch him walk down the steps. There, under the dark oak shade to the right, is his father’s roadster. Andrew turns to face me, waves, points to Polaris, and turns east. He slips into a stride. I can’t call out to say he’s forgotten the automobile. In the morning, if someone asks, I’ll say he couldn’t get it to start.
NEW YEAR’S EVE, 1927. A steamboat jazz dance. It’s so cold, the band has been moved inside. We silently stand next to each other on the deck for a long time. We cannot hear each other breathe. I feel as comfortable as if we had been talking.
“Your hands must be cold,” he says when he sees my fingers close around the rail. His are protected by smooth brown leather gloves.
“Not really,” I say. They aren’t.
“Here, take my gloves. I insist.”
“No, I’m fine. Keep them.”
Without speaking, he takes my right wrist and holds it steady as he slips the glove on my hand. He does the same with the left. They are big for me and retain his heat. A sensation beyond temperature makes its way through my blood.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
He is a true gentleman. He moves with ease that is instinct more than reflex. I like the way he opens doors wide for women and lets men pass through before him. He thanks people sincerely for their service, even if it’s for making a sundae. He always looks people in the eye when he speaks with them. I know—although the circumstance has
not presented itself—that he is the kind of man who would be the first to stand when a lady enters a room.
“Is that better?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His hands are deep inside the pockets of his overcoat. I watch his profile, crisp against the gray sky. I have never noticed what a wonderful nose he has, perfect in its geometry. His cheeks are pink from the cold. His bottom lip pouts slightly as if he’s forgotten to pull it even with the top one. “May I hold your hand?” he asks with such reticence I think he expects me to refuse.
I hold out my right hand, palm down, and he slips his left underneath. I move closer to him and reach for his right arm. He turns toward me and takes my other hand as well. I step toward him so that our hands are trapped between our chests. “You don’t have to ask, Andrew. Not now.”
“Not now?” His eyebrows drop to make his expression inquisitive.
“Not since I decided that I—that I—like you.” For any other man, that would have been his cue to give me a hasty, fervent kiss.
“I’ve decided that I rather like you, too.” He kisses me lightly on the forehead with a gentleness that stalls my breath and makes me close my eyes to focus on that feeling alone. A few seconds later, when I feel his lips on mine, I am caught off guard. The start of this kiss is a question, really, and I respond to him by wrapping my arms around his waist under his coat and relaxing my bottom lip between his. When he realizes that he has his answer, Andrew slips his hand to the back of my neck and kisses me long and wet and passionately until the pure intensity makes me want to cry.
We pull apart, slightly. “I think we had an audience,” he says.
I turn to see an elderly couple on the other end of the deck. Their arms are linked, and they are smiling at us. They wave, and we wave back. The old man takes his wife by the arm and leads her inside, where it is warm.
The Mercy of Thin Air Page 9
