There is every reason to rush, yet neither one of us does. I loosen the buttons of his Oxford shirt and see his breath animate under layers of bone and flesh. My hands drape on the rise and fall, back and forth, take the rhythm to his shoulders, turn the collar behind him, shed sleeves. My zipper trickles down my spine with an exhale, the pit of my back arches away. The slip marks territory. We touch only what we can see. Now, a kiss on my neck, another, another, a necklace of bliss, a charm brought to his lips, caught between us. At his waist, cool silver under my fingertips, leather whisper and whip, two buttons, his back forced to the earth, row of metal teeth apart, wool over cotton. He sighs, low, fast, hands at my hips, seams inside out, silk through my hair, now his hands, down, my pulse at his wrists, his pulse at mine. Herringbone in my fists, one undulation, two kicks, aside. Cotton at his knuckles, slow shimmy, left right center left, away, fingertips at garter bands, pull, grip at both calves, ankles, toes, away. My whorl at the freckle on the front of his left hip, the first point of constellation, the second here, and then here . . . Not yet, not the urgency, every place else, first with hands and eyes—don’t move—next my lips, he is seamless, and before the map is complete—he charts me the same way.
I want—I want to, I want him.
Our hands embrace the release.
Andrew observes my eyes. He smiles as if he knows a secret about me.
LIONEL AND I were nearly joined at the mist from the moment I started to teach him how to live between. I’d never had a brother, and Nel would have been my choice if I’d had one. He was a wonderful conversationalist, a good listener, and a wicked practical joker.
Although he knew we weren’t supposed to interfere, he couldn’t help himself. People’s slow powers of perception were too tempting. No one relished the fun of teleportation more than he did, and he was good at the trick. Because he couldn’t use his own form to distract attention from his sleight of hand, he had to be particularly observant of his victims. He could move a set of car keys, a cocktail, or a packed suitcase so often in a short span of time that he’d bring people to tears of frustration.
His favorite trick was the lap dance. Nel had learned to create the energetic membrane of the body he once had. He could not experience human touch as he once did, but he was nearly certain that people couldn’t tell the difference. Now and then, he would knit his form and slip under the descending rear of a streetcar passenger or moviegoer. The depth perception startled them first, and their hands would run over the obstacle, and then, limbs gyrating, they’d fling themselves away from the blank space. I chastised him for blatantly crossing the boundaries, but he ignored me.
“I’m so mean,” he’d say with a chuckle. “It’s not right. To think we were once so easily bewildered. Poor breather.”
When he wasn’t amusing himself, Nel worked through a list of simple accomplishments during his first months. He had kept a list of movies he wanted to see before he died, so he watched films in video stores between one and eight in the morning for several weeks. After that, we spent days and nights in libraries across the city. To start, he read all of the writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I told him that hardly counted because we had perfect memories of anything we read before we died. Nel had only studied two key essays in high school, though. To read Emerson’s body of work only took a few days. No need for sleep. Then he studied art history. What a pleasure, he declared three months later, to be able to look at a painting, know its style, and name its creator. Because he thought he should, he forced himself through War and Peace. Next, he studied car repair manuals and loitered in auto shops until he understood internal combustion engines and brake systems. For fun, Nel shocked an entire crew of mechanics when they arrived at work one morning and every car worked perfectly.
“Isn’t there something you want to do?” he asked me six months after his body died. We were giving ourselves a tour of the Cabildo, another Lionel to-do almost done. “Aren’t you bored? You haven’t gone out on your own much lately.”
“Am I bothering you?”
“No, no, you’re never in the way. But all you do is read or stare off into space. You’ve hardly trained any new ones in months.”
“I’ve put in seventy years or so. Can’t I have a break?”
“There’s no retirement in this state, honey. They need you.”
“Thanks, Nel.” I watched him rock on the balls of his feet to his heels. An old habit unbroken, only he did this hovering an inch above ground.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me when I was adjusting. About what we are. What you think we are. That we’re the reduction of those atoms and whatever they hold. The whole bit about elements—oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen—what the air and our bodies have in common.”
“It’s only a theory. Ready to go?”
We moved under the archway, facing Jackson Square.
“I hated physics in school,” he said. “I didn’t have the patience to learn. Didn’t think I was smart enough to understand. But it’s really interesting once you get into it.” He looked at me. “A lot has changed since the days you studied the subject.”
“Pos-a-lutely.”
“So this idea that we’re reductions, where did you get that?”
“It’s simply logic. The particles needed for matter are gone. The rest stayed. Here we are.”
“Undiscovered bits. From atom to electrons and protons to quarks to—what is it these days—strings?”
I didn’t turn to him as we passed St. Louis Cathedral and the tables of chiromancers and card readers lined up near the church’s gray steps. Nel had become unusually interested in a topic that made ordinary minds drowse and wander. Although I appreciated his curiosity—I liked Nel because he was an inquisitive sort—I was unsure what motivated him. Whether he wanted an explanation or comfort, he’d get neither.
“Razi—strings, right?”
“These days, yes, strings.”
“I think it’s a beautiful idea, don’t you? Imagine—deep down, the pieces are all the same, and how they vibrate make them unique, like a photon or an electron, and then how they move and interact make them unique again, into atoms and such.”
“Quite lovely.”
Nel stopped, creating a blank density in the middle of the banquette that tourists dodged. “You haven’t read anything in years, have you?”
“I’ve dabbled. I know about the quantum and chaos theories.”
“You don’t strike me as a dabbler.”
“These people question what everything’s made of and what holds it together. But it’s all still finite, regardless of what it is. That hasn’t changed.”
“But explain why we’re sentient. Explain why we still remember. What holds who we are? Don’t you want to know?”
“You were the kid who always asked questions, weren’t you?”
“You were the kid who shouted out the answers. Where’s your answer now, Razi?”
AMY HAD CALLED to say she was working late again. After Scott hung up the phone, he paced along the living room floor for several minutes. He went into the kitchen, and a small book rustled open. Eleven even beeps chirped in the silent house.
“Chloe?” He leaned his hip against the sink. “Hi, it’s Scott Duncan.”
A little howl vibrated the phone. “What’s with the last name? You’re not at work, right? Oh, my God. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. How’s that new job?”
“Great. Bet you didn’t figure me a techno geek, did you?”
“No. But then you changed majors so often that I’m more surprised you’re not still in college.”
“Old friends and ancient history. Gotta love ’em. Speaking of which—how’s Amy?” She paused. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is she still having a hard time over her grandparents?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it.”
“No shock there.”
“It’s not that.” He pee
ked outside the kitchen door’s window. “Remember that summer at the clinic?”
“All I care to.”
“Remember when Amy had that period of keeping things really neat?”
“Oh, shit.”
Scott swallowed hard. “I don’t think she’s dealing with her grief over her grandparents. She cried every day for two weeks after her Grandma Sunny died, and then it was sort of sporadic after that. Then when Poppa Fin died, she cried only once—after his funeral. Then nothing. She doesn’t even mention them.”
“She’s sad they’re both gone, but furious at old Fin. She sent this e-mail a while back and told me what he did. I told her that happened in my family, too, one of my older cousins who lost her husband. Got rid of everything in a matter of weeks. I thought it was weird, but I see it from their point of view—it’s got to hurt to have that stuff around.”
“It was so soon after, though,” Scott said. “And he did it alone. Amy would have wanted to be there, to save things.”
“We don’t have a right to tell people how to grieve,” Chloe replied. “Anyway, when did her cleaning fit start?”
Scott unlocked the back door and sat on the steps. “Three, four weeks ago. At least that’s when I noticed.”
“Do you know what triggered it?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I hoped she’d said something. What did you do last time to get her out of it?”
“What last time?”
“That summer, after the protests.”
“Oh.”
“Oh what?”
“I rarely did anything. She worked it out in her own head, mostly.”
“I was there that summer, Chloe. She didn’t work out of that alone.”
Suddenly, faintly, Jem’s scent emerged. His presence was accidental, as if Scott didn’t mean to remember that Jem had been there, too.
“Look,” Scott said, “I don’t know how you—and Jem—got her through. It’s really bad this time. Not like the times when she cleans to think something out. That lasts a day or two, not weeks.”
“You have to talk it out of her.”
“She won’t talk.”
“She will. Everyone has a breaking point.”
“I don’t want her to snap.”
“She’s not a twig. You’re such a sensitive new age guy. She loves that about you, whether or not you know it. Enter the millennium with a new spin, Captain Jigsaw. Sensitivity is knowing the right tack to get what you want.”
“When’s your self-help book hitting the shelves?”
“True gifts like mine won’t be sold.”
“If you knew something, you’d tell me, right?”
“If it were my place to tell you. No doubt.”
“Your place?”
“Semantics. Don’t be paranoid.”
“I need a favor. Come here. Come see her.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I have to be honest. I can’t afford it. The move—”
“I’ll pay for the ticket. Can you come? She’ll talk to you. I know it. You’re like sodium pentothal. No one can look you in the eye and lie. I’ve seen it happen.”
Pages fell upon each other in the background of Chloe’s line. “Maybe I should have gone into the CIA. No, I bet I have an FBI file from my activist days. Okay, three weeks from now, early August. That’s the best I can do, buddy.”
Scott’s body relaxed forward. He closed his eyes. “Thank you, Chloe.”
“I just wish I weren’t seeing you guys for the first time in months under these circumstances. One catch, though. You have to make me some of that damn fine chili of yours. I haven’t had real food in forever. A girl can eat just so much from a salad bar.”
“I’ll even spring for beer,” he said.
TWOLLY AND I primly pose on a bench as Andrew fiddles with his new toy, a Kodak camera with adjustable speed and focus. Inspired by the photographs in National Geographic, he wants to learn how to take his own snapshots. For now, until he becomes a world traveler, his hometown is the subject.
“Twolly, turn your head a little to the left, wait, down slightly. There. Don’t either of you move. And—done.” He looks down at the camera.
I stretch my legs. “Are you going to New York during the Mardi Gras break?”
Twolly squeezes her mouth into a little prune. “Daddy doesn’t want me to go. Mother got him all stirred up about the foreigners there, and he has it in his head that someone will sell me into white slavery.”
I can’t stop laughing.
“It’s not funny,” she says.
“How can you be so sensible and have such a kooky family?”
“My daddy worries about me.”
“My daddy worries about me, too, but he doesn’t keep me from having my own life. Didn’t you tell him you’d get one of your sisters to go along?”
“Terre is due in a month, Fleur is planning her wedding, and Ciel gets violently train-sick. Little Soleil would only sweeten the trade.” We laugh.
“Your talent is being squandered,” I say. “Your teacher wouldn’t have offered to arrange those meetings if she didn’t think someone would snatch you up. Imagine, Twolls, your very own line of jewelry. In New York. Maybe then France. Your name is perfect. Etoile. You’d be famous. At least try it. Have some fun.”
“I don’t really want to go anyway.”
“Liar. I should escort you myself. And because you’re such a goody-goody, you can be my chaperone.”
“Chaperone for what?” Andrew stands within earshot now. Twolly summarizes the drama. “You should go. You will always wonder what if, if you don’t.”
As he turns little gears this way and that, I notice his square silver initialed cuff links. APO. “What’s your middle name, Andrew? You haven’t told me.”
He twitches his black eyebrows. “What if I’m using an initial alone?”
“Honestly. Come on, now. Twolly can keep a secret better than anyone, and I need only a little bribe.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I would trade with mine, but I never got one. Twolls, tell him your full name.”
“Etoile Luna Knight.”
Andrew blinks at her and finally says, “Inventive.” He wants to laugh.
“Go ahead. I did when she told me.”
He smiles. He’s too much of a gentleman to make fun of a lady’s name.
“Now,” I say, “if hers can be so silly—”
“Hey—” Twolly says.
“—you can share yours.”
“I may not even tell the woman I wed.” Andrew doesn’t blink.
“Spoilsport. Will you let me guess?” I brush my hand down his arm.
“Three.”
“If I guess, will you admit that I’m right?”
“That’s only fair,” Twolly says.
“Yes, that’s only fair,” Andrew agrees.
“A name that starts with P. Hmm. Now, you must want to keep it a secret because it’s terrible. And you may think it’s ghastly, but perhaps it’s not. You might hate it for no reason at all. O’Connell. Irish, Catholic. Oh, it must be a saint’s name. Paul.” Negative. “Peter.” Again, no. “Phillip?”
“That was a good college try.” Andrew grins, then walks away.
“You’re going to burn a hole in his trousers if you keep staring like that, Miss Off-the-Market,” Twolly says. “You’re so cute when you’re in—”
“Andrew.” I run to him. “This isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.”
“I need practice.”
“That’s fine. But it won’t do for us to loll about like Maxfield Parrish models, so serious and pensive.” I skip circles around him. “See, I’m a fairy. Capture me if you can.”
“Aye, lassie,” he answers with a brogue, “you may have your wish for the price of a kiss.” He winks at me in the way that makes me want to kiss more than his cheek, which is all I do before Twolly and anyone else who happens to glance our way.
“Twolls—to the playground,” I say.
“Let her take one,” I say.
“Oh, may I?” Twolly looks at him with puppy eyes.
“Remember how to focus?” he asks. She nods. “Look charming, Razi.”
“Look charming with me. Come here.”
He refuses, several times, but Twolly pushes him gently in my direction. I get down from the seesaw, and Andrew gives me a bashful grin as he approaches. He puts a rigid arm around my shoulders. Twolly, preoccupied with the lens, doesn’t see him jump when I slip my hand into his back pocket. He almost laughs, would have if he hadn’t stopped himself. I turn my face up and watch the smirk take over his cheeks. My molesting hand moves to his waist. He relaxes. His hip rests right above mine.
“Hold still. Got it,” Twolly says.
Andrew tries to pull away, but I hug him suddenly, my cheek on his chest. He hugs me, too, secure and affectionate, and I incandesce.
“Got that. Very cute. Oh, I think you’re out of film.”
“I have more in my pocket.” He does not rush when he releases me. Andrew takes the camera and begins to replace the roll.
Twolly grabs my cloche. “That was fun. I think I took some good photos.”
“Your artistic eye, I’m sure.” I take my hat from her.
We perch on the seesaw. Twolly kicks her legs out when she’s on top. She hasn’t made a noise about our unladylike behavior. We wave at Andrew and blow him kisses. When he tells us to hold still, Twolly—taller and heavier than I am—anchors the seesaw to the ground as I reach for the sky. After he takes the photographs, Andrew sits on the ground and watches us brush fingertips against the clouds.
MY SAUCY DRUGSTORE theatrics with Twolly and clandestine leafleting at school lead to a new tactic—Boyless Parties.
Twolly and Andrew have tried their best to discourage me. They imagine a scandal that will embarrass my family, ruin my reputation, and destroy my chance at medical school, not to mention result in a prison term.
The Mercy of Thin Air Page 11
