Scott took a quick breath. In the moment he paused, a wisp of Jem’s scent hung in the air, brief as a banished thought.
“When was the last time we watched a movie together?” Scott asked. “Or ate a meal at the same time? What about a conversation? I’m not even talking about the big one you’ve avoided that starts with a B and ends with a Y. And oh yes, while I’m at it, let me be predictably trite enough to wonder when we last had sex.”
Amy sat with her arms folded against her chest. Her blue-green eyes squinted at a corner of the computer screen.
“Fight back.”
“I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Then talk to me.”
She finally looked up at him. “I can’t.”
For a moment, they stared at each other. Losing his temper wasn’t a natural reaction for him. The air started to cool almost immediately, despite Amy’s curt refusal to tell him what she hid so well. As the room settled, Jem’s essence rose powerful as chloroform around her. I recalled the conversation Amy had with Twolly. The questions Amy had asked were about Sunny’s first husband and their son.
Scott left the room without another word.
Dear Mr. Burrat—
I haven’t written a letter in a long time, so I apologize for how it might sound. And I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. I hope I haven’t delayed your work.
Of course you know Simon Beeker was my father. Daddy died in December. He would have been the best person to help. But I’ll tell you what I can.
Daddy always told us that Mr. O’Connell was good to our family. Daddy’s grandmother was his housekeeper (Emmaline Coteau was her name) for many years. Mr. O’Connell’s family was very wealthy. The kind of rich that wasn’t hurt much by the Great Depression. Sometime in the late 1930s Patrick O’Connell—Andrew O’Connell’s daddy—died and left plenty behind. There was some stock in AT&T and RCA. Those were young companies at the time. Mr. O’Connell (Andrew) signed his shares over to my great-grandmother Emmaline even though she stopped working for his family soon after he left New Orleans. He really took good care of her through the end of her life Daddy said. He made sure she had what she needed for food and doctor bills and keeping up her house.
Now before my great-grandmother died, Mr. O’Connell and my great-grandmother set it up that my daddy Simon got her stock. That’s how he paid for his tuition at Howard University. Daddy got to thank Mr. O’Connell for his kindness after my great-grandmother died. As Daddy told it, Mr. O’Connell didn’t want to spend a night in the city again (you must know about how his girlfriend died). But he came for that funeral and they had a drink together that evening. (Daddy liked to go on about the joint near the river where they went. It was a place no one was going to look twice at a black man and white man talking together. Good music, good beer Daddy said.) Mr. O’Connell didn’t have to do what he did, but he wasn’t a typical man of his day. My daddy couldn’t say enough good about him for how he took care of my great-grandmother.
It’s because of Mr. O’Connell that my two sisters and I got to go to college and my mamma and daddy had a good life in their late years. My daddy kept hold of that stock as long as he could. He cashed shares only when he needed to. To tell you the truth, none of us knew what Daddy had until my sister Sarah was going off to Spelman. Daddy gave her a check to pay for four years of tuition and living expenses the day she graduated high school. We couldn’t figure out how he did something like that on a history teacher’s pay. But then he told us what Mr. O’Connell had done.
You know how older people get, telling the same stories over and over. Daddy told us the same ones from time to time. To be honest, I forgot a lot of the ones he told when I was a little boy. But I do remember that he always spoke of Mr. O’Connell with lots of respect.
Oh, I guess I have something to say on my own, now that I think about it. They kept in touch—my daddy and Mr. O’Connell. Holiday cards and letters now and then mostly. But when I was about 8, we went to his house. I don’t know why exactly. I vaguely remember Daddy bringing a big box with us to drop off. Anyway, we kids already knew that Mr. O’Connell had helped Daddy go to college. We understood this was an important visit. Back then, we had to take a train from New Orleans. I had never been on a long train ride. I thought I’d watch the whole trip. But the movement of the train made me sleep the whole way. Mr. O’Connell picked us up at the train station in a new blue Chevy. I remember how people looked at us. There he was, this white man, picking up a family of black people. In the 50s. You can imagine the stares and whispers. And he didn’t look uncomfortable at all even though he shook our hands in a formal sort of way. He had these very interesting eyes, too. You couldn’t help but notice them because of the color. Anyway, I remember Daddy rode in the front seat, and I was afraid the police were going to stop us. Mr. O’Connell just drove like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Mr. O’Connell’s house was beautiful. It had two stories. I remember I liked the stairs. His wife was very nice to us, but I got the feeling she was a little uncomfortable. Still, she put all the kids in the den—my sisters and me and their kids. We had cookies and milk and some of the molasses bread my mamma baked. There was a record player. We didn’t have one at the time, so this was a treat for us. We kids never saw each other again, but I never forgot how Mr. O’Connell made us feel welcome in his house.
My sister Sarah could probably help you the most. She said she got a letter from you, too, but I think she’s been busy with work and handling Daddy’s estate. I’ll remind her to write you. Also, you didn’t give me your phone number, and my son couldn’t find it when we checked the phone book on the Internet. My card is in the envelope, so you feel free to call if you have more questions. That might help me think of more to tell.
Good luck.
Benjamin Beeker
Without warning, I remembered watching Simon in Andrew’s room the day after he left for places unknown. Simon ran his thin fingers against the bookcase that had become his, along with dozens of volumes stacked inside. He walked to his new desk and noticed paper in the small garbage can nearby. Simon picked up the can to empty it. He stopped in the doorway, pulled my last letter to Andrew from the trash, and studied the dark brown stain that had seeped from one side of the envelope to the other. He sniffed for a clue to its source. Then Simon slipped the letter into his pocket and patted his hip as if to promise his protection.
I looked at the business card Benjamin had sent. He was a plant manager at a chemical company. He had written his home phone number in a blank corner. I wished I could telephone and ask him to search his thoughts for the childhood stories he assumed were gone for good. I wondered if he knew what his father had done with my last words to Andrew.
I AM NINE. A few weeks ago, I found out how a woman gets a baby. No storks dropping them down chimneys, no cabbage patches full of an infant crop. An act of love and nature. There is logic in what Mother told me. A man, a woman, pollen and seed, bud to blossom, blossom to fruit. Cause and effect, my father would say.
I know how the baby grows inside. I’ve seen the drawings. There are things I still don’t understand, though.
Mrs. Delacourt’s middle daughter comes to visit after a suffragette luncheon. I know, because I eavesdropped, that she is in her fifth month. Margaret remembers me and asks about my schoolwork while her mother prepares a plate. I tell her about the new microscope my daddy bought me and the slides I made of plants and dead bugs. She claims to have a weak stomach and admires my curiosity. Margaret jumps suddenly. Her hands clasp the sides of her belly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The baby kicked.”
“Kicked?”
“Do you want to feel it?”
I press my palms gently against the soft cotton drape, the tight skin underneath. A quick thrust bends my fingertips. Several sharp nudges follow, then stillness. I think of the drawings, the concentric ovals around a curled little body, the layers protecting it.
<
br /> “It doesn’t breathe, does it? There is a cord that gives it oxygen.”
“Yes.” Margaret looks startled. “Later, though, it will practice with the water.”
“With the water? Oh, in the amnion.”
“How did you know?”
“I read.”
“Does your mother know you know that?”
“She gets me the books.”
“What do you think about what you learn?”
“It’s fun. It’s like solving a mystery all the time.”
“That doesn’t disappoint you?”
Suddenly, I remember Grams’s Christmas party last year. I had pulled off Santa Claus’s hat and beard before he escaped through the kitchen door. Uncle Roger swiped the hat from my hand, grinned, and said, You’re in on the conspiracy now, Razi. Disappointed? I paused, smiled back. Now I have something good to tell.
I beam at Margaret. “The finding out is much better.”
I AM TEN. After several rounds of blindman’s buff, we decide we want treats and beg for pennies.
My mother quickly finds a few dollars, but no change. As Mother digs in her bag, Mrs. Villere whispers, “Oh, there’s Frances Bonaventure,” as she hands her son a dime for him and his sisters.
A woman pushing a carriage walks ahead of a stairstep of four children. From the drape of her dress, it’s obvious she’s carrying again. She comes closer, and Mother waves.
“Is she expecting—again?” Mrs. Villere asks.
“Poor dear.” Mrs. Delacourt clucks her tongue.
I take Mother’s bag and slowly poke the contents. My playmates call me to hurry. “Aw, I’m coming,” I say. Mrs. Bonaventure comes straight to the bench. Mother and her friends greet the woman.
“My, how your children have grown,” Mother says. “How old are they now?”
“The baby will be a year next month.” She points to the row of children, two boys and two girls, who obediently hold hands. “Seven, five, four, and two and a half.”
“They’re darling,” Mrs. Delacourt says. “Aren’t you all?”
“And the Lord will bless us again in the New Year.”
“Congratulations,” Mother says. “I hope Mr. Bonaventure is doing well.”
“Oh, quite. Busy, busy, but then, which of our husbands is not?”
“So true,” Mother replies.
“Well, we must continue on our walk. I promised them ice cream if they behaved. Come now, children. Have a lovely afternoon, ladies.” The children follow behind like ducklings.
I tuck a nickel between my fingers and keep digging. I wonder why her flesh, almost ashen, doesn’t stretch quite right on her face, why her bosom hangs low. I feel a sympathy for her I don’t understand.
“Poor dear.” Mrs. Delacourt tsks again.
“He’s a beast,” Mrs. Villere says. “There would have been a six and a three, but I’m sure you heard what happened.”
“I should have Snitchy send a box of oranges this winter,” Mrs. Delacourt says. “Two boxes. They all need their vitamins.”
“Raziela, have you found your pennies?” Mother says calmly.
I hold up my nickel. “Will this do?”
She nods, then looks at me in a way that makes me think she wishes I hadn’t seen what I did.
I WATCHED Nel and Eugenia stroll around her lovely old home. Late fall was a lonesome time for Eugenia. The people who lived in her house planted few flowers during that season, and she didn’t have much to tend. Her pace was a little faster, her attention to cuffs and collars more frequent. We all had our tricks to ease us through the quiet, vacant moments. With Nel that cool early morning, she seemed comforted.
During the few months that Nel had been between, the two had developed an affinity that made me think they each saw someone they missed in the other. He felt soothed by the orbit over the grounds, and Eugenia enjoyed the garrulous company. They shared a common interest in classical music and would often hum together in enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, duets.
When I turned to watch the first pink streaks of the sunrise, I saw Noble pivot the corner and come toward me. I waved, and he returned the gesture.
“Eugenia will be beside herself—so many visitors to begin the day,” I said.
“She is expecting me. We’ve met on this day for years.”
I considered the date. November 2. I remembered my Sunday school lessons. It was All Souls’ Day. Almost two centuries had passed since Noble last breathed, and he still held fast to the practice of a faith that he truly believed had betrayed him. He looked agitated, vulnerable. “I didn’t know Eugenia shared this—observation.”
“It is especially meaningful for us, Razi.” Noble paused, kept a thought to himself. He glanced at Lionel and Eugenia. “How is the new one? Still at your heels?”
“He’s fun. You should try it sometime.”
Noble smirked but with some degree of humor. “You think me melancholy.”
“Deny it.”
“I have an appointment with the gentle lady.”
As we approached, Eugenia fluttered her hand at her chest and laughed. “Oh, Lionel, you are so comical.”
Nel’s grin remained wide when he greeted Noble and stopped moving. Eugenia paused as well. I told Nel it was time to go.
“I want to ask them each something first,” Nel said.
I wished for a sleeve—a well-stitched, thick cotton weave—to pull him away. I sensed that he was about to ask about matters that came out in their own time, if at all. His inquisitiveness bordered on nosy of late.
“Eugenia, when was the last time you left this yard?”
“Oh, my, well, I went shopping the morning before the bees came.”
“Why not since?”
“I have no material needs any longer, Lionel. Whatever is the point?”
“Isn’t there anything you want to see? Don’t you wonder about how the city has changed? How the world has changed?”
Eugenia batted her eyes. “There is nothing I can do about that, precious. Besides, this is where I always wanted to be. My garden. The Yankees tried to destroy it all, my home, my garden, but I was a fine shot, yes I was, and I saved enough to start again. I was nearly finished, and then—I’ve told you that story.”
“Yes. The bees,” Nel said. “But the ones you kill, Eugenia, it’s not their fault.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want such a thing to happen to another.” Her voice was thinly sweet. “It is an awful way to die, Lionel. You cannot imagine the swelling inside and out.”
“Nel, let’s go. Noble came to see her privately,” I said.
His face was calm, but his eyes were troubled. “In a minute. Noble, may I ask you a question?”
“One.”
“What do you have left to do?”
“Explain.”
“There has been plenty of time for you to see or explore whatever you wanted to. You’re still here. I’m curious to know why.”
Noble straightened, inching himself only slightly taller than I, nowhere close to Lionel’s height. “This is my home.”
“Anywhere can be your home.”
“You stay as well,” Noble said.
“I haven’t decided where to go next.”
“And I have, monsieur. I belong here. I belong close to what remains.” Noble’s glance toward me was a warning. I knew what, in part, kept him in New Orleans. I would admit to no one that I understood Noble in a way I didn’t want to.
Nel pitched back on his heels. “What does that mean?”
“I agreed to one question.”
“Close to what remains? Your people are all long gone. The city isn’t anything like it was when you first got here. So I can only think there must be something you want to accomplish, see, do, understand—something—which is why you stay.”
“You will make yourself mad, Lionel Mulberry, going on like this. But I will indulge you. What do you have left to do?”
“I’m trying to figure that out,” Nel said
. “Am I the only one?”
The three of us—Eugenia, Noble, and me—glanced at each other. Eugenia had never led someone to join a last breath for his own good, but Noble and I had. There were some who simply would never be able to cope with our experience, the feebleminded, the insane, the children—like Donna, the first one I ever helped with a release. Then there were the ones who had become too preoccupied with questioning what had been, and there was little they could do to change circumstances once they were gone. When they were taken to sit with the dying, they were grateful. They were ready for the wondering to stop. I feared that Nel was on his way to this end.
“Lionel, precious, what I have observed about you modern men is that you keep yourselves far too busy.” Eugenia began to drift again. Stillness made her anxious. “But you are a Southern man, too. It was in your blood. Your capacity to enjoy a promenade with a charming, pretty lady must take precedence.”
“Walk with me, Nel,” I said.
“It is a lovely morning,” Noble said. “A beautiful morning to behold.”
Nel politely said his good-byes, but he was clearly hurt. The dew evaporated under him as we swept across Eugenia’s lawn. The stir of the air awakened a brilliant bed of pansies. I pushed the scent aside, refused to admire the abundant petals Eugenia protected from insects and ice.
“I know what you just did,” Nel said. “You denied yourself the smell of those flowers.”
“Yes. Today isn’t the day you’ll learn why.”
CHLOE SAT on the back porch steps with a large piece of luggage at her knees. Her head pivoted in quick shifts to look around the quiet backyard. Hot as August was, she didn’t seem uncomfortable in her sharp black linen suit. She looked like a woman of purpose, a force to reckon with.
Amy drove up ten minutes later. She didn’t notice her friend until she had slammed the car door shut. For a moment, she looked perplexed. “You’re not a mirage, are you?”
The Mercy of Thin Air Page 15
