“You don’t understand. My life was taken away from me then,” she said. “The shock was so awful. I thought I was dreaming. My grandfather was standing next to the bed, rattling the change in his pockets. I asked where Jem was, and he said, ‘We thought we’d lost you, too.’ Then Mom pushed him away and said she was glad I was awake, she tried to distract me, but I made her tell me the truth. Then I knew I was awake—my face and pelvis and leg were killing me. They had to sedate me. Mom was there when I came to again, and she told me that I’d been out for six days, and Jem was already buried.” She paused. “You can’t understand what it’s like. Losing someone like that.”
“Of course I do. He was my best friend.”
“He was more than that to me.”
“Even after all this time, you’ve never gotten over him?”
“I was—I am.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“As much as you loved him?”
“I can’t answer that.”
Scott twisted his shins over the bedside. He stood tall and wide-legged, his fists pressed into the joints of his hips. “He’s still got you, and he’s dead.”
“I wasn’t your first love. You weren’t mine. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“In the event the winner cannot fulfill his obligations, the first runner-up will—”
“That’s not how it is.”
“Then how is it? I’m your husband—you made a commitment to me—and all this time, I’ve been nothing but a consolation prize.”
“That’s not true. I married you because I love you.”
“Or the closest thing you could get to Jem?”
“You.”
“Bullshit.”
“Scott—”
“I don’t want to hear it. I can empathize with the way it must feel to lose a baby. That you didn’t even know you were pregnant, well, that must have been awful. And as for Jem, I’m no idiot, I know you loved him. He was your fiancé. Yeah, you bothered to tell me that before we got married. Who knew that wasn’t the biggest secret?” He shoved his pillow under his arm. “But now. What about now? Old feelings can’t replace your life, Amy, and they for goddamn sure shouldn’t replace me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Right.” He grabbed a pillow and clutched it to his chest as he turned to leave. When he swept through the bathroom, he flicked off the light. A moment later, the door to the guest room slammed shut.
Amy curled into a tight ball on the mattress.
PART THREE
THREE WEEKS after Amy revealed her secrets, Scott was still living in the guest room. On the nightstand, the Big Ben never lost time. Each morning, it awoke him with its tinny ring. His weekday routine had not changed. He put on his exercise clothes, ate a small breakfast, stretched, and jogged for nearly an hour. After he showered, Scott found pressed slacks and shirts in the closet, the one across from the perfectly made bed where he hadn’t slept. He always looked surprised when he found the clothes, perplexed because he had not ironed them himself, but made no comment about who had done the work. On his way out, he had stopped reaching for the soapstone box on the dresser. The route was different then. His watch and wedding band, both of which he still wore, had a new place next to the alarm clock.
Sometimes, when Scott came home, the house was silent. The answering machine held a message, I’m still at work. Don’t worry. Don’t wait up. He unbuttoned and unzipped as he went to the bathroom, where he bathed quickly. He had dinner in front of the television and watched reruns of programs from his childhood. Once he got bored, he went into the room to read or work on his puzzle, only after he left lights on in the other rooms. At bedtime, if he fell asleep before she came home, his rest was never deep. The smallest sounds roused his bleary eyes open.
And other nights, if she hadn’t stayed late, he found her at the dining room table, which was now a studio of forgotten photographs. They would say hello at least, acknowledge each other, but they would not make eye contact. On those nights, Scott had dinner standing up at the kitchen counter. After he ate, he went straight into the spare room and quietly entertained himself. Now and then, he would look up and listen to the distant buzz of the scanner. He slept better those nights, but not much.
On Saturdays, he left early to meet his running group. The anticipatory grin on his face, the attention to hair combing, and the trouble he took to match T-shirts and shorts was worrisome. When he returned home, a few minutes later each week, he stocked the refrigerator with food he liked after a long run—pineapple juice, soy sausages, preservative-free bread. As he went to shower, he passed through rooms tinged with dusting spray and tile cleanser—and everything was in order. If he stayed home, he cooked lunch that they didn’t eat together and stored the leftovers before they spoiled. If he left, Scott put a note on the kitchen counter. He was gone for hours and only came back once with a purchase, a new book.
Every Sunday, by nine thirty in the morning, because the heat grew flowers well into September, he mowed and edged the entire yard. If he noticed a drooping bed of plants, he set the hose on it while he drank a glass of water. He took a long, cool shower, then washed his soaked work clothes in a small load. For a few hours, he flicked through movies and news programs. He cooked supper, and they ate in shifts, each cleaning up after themselves. There had been a time when they went to bed early on Sunday nights, together, without discussion, routine as much as ritual.
AMY NEVER NEEDED the alarm, although it was set just in case. She lay on her back for several minutes before rising from the center of the bed. As soon as she got up, she pulled the covers straight and arranged the pillows, creating symmetry despite the missing one. Her pressed clothes hung on the closet doorknob, as they had every weekday morning for the last two months. She used the smaller bathroom to bathe and fix her hair. In the bathroom that joined the master and guest rooms, Amy applied her light makeup. She dressed slowly, perhaps selected a necklace or earrings from Twolly’s chest. Two rings never came off her fingers, her wedding ring and a narrow silver band inset with red coral. She often had a big breakfast that didn’t involve cooking—cereal, granola bars, fruit. Occasionally, she packed a lunch.
The house was always quiet when she returned from work. If she didn’t stay late, Amy bathed, dressed for bed, made a simple meal enough for two, and ate as she watched the news. She cleaned and straightened the house. Later, with a determined expression, Amy went to the computer that was set on the dining table. Her office chair from the guest room replaced one straight-backed wooden seat. She pressed tiny cushioned nodes into her ears, turned music on low, and focused on the bins of paper in front of her. One by one, she scanned photographs and studied them on her monitor. The cursor moved, the mouse clicked, the images flickered until each one was as crisp and brilliant as the technology allowed. When he came home, she greeted him tersely. At bedtime, she brushed her teeth in the dark, in the bathroom they did not share.
Those nights she worked late at the office, Amy received at least one call that disconnected soon after she said hello. Sometimes there were voices behind her, mutterings about pixels or code, and sometimes there was only music. She came home to a trail of lit lamps, which she turned off one by one. Amy didn’t bother with the house on those nights. There was nothing to tidy anyway. She took a long, hot soak in the little bathroom and read a few pages before she went to sleep.
On Saturdays, she woke up early as usual. As soon as Scott left the house, Amy went grocery shopping and put away everything when she returned. She set about cleaning every room. Occasionally she would leave for the day, a note scrawled on a pad, but she never brought anything home. If she stayed, Amy monitored laundry while she watched a movie or read or touched up photographs on the computer.
The lawn mower woke her up on Sundays. She had breakfast in front of the television. By the time he was in the shower, she was in the bedroom with the ironing board and baskets of laundry. She ironed her outfit
for Monday morning, but didn’t iron his clothes. She had only done so during the worst of her cleaning fit. Amy folded her laundry—and his, as she had before, according to habit. When she placed his basket in the closet, she was surprised to see the row of pressed khakis and Oxfords. She touched the sharp, starched lines every time.
I HAVE THE POWER to stop him.
As Andrew opens the drawers to his desk and bookcase, tossing my letters into a crate, I could make loud noises or start a fire or turn the temperature in his room to an unbearable extreme. Distract him. Give him the chance to reconsider. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I know that he is not going to sit and read my words to him, because the sound of my voice in his head will mangle his heart all over again.
I could wrap around his shoulders, whisper into his ear, Andrew, darling, don’t. He cannot hear me, but I have seen what happens when I touch him. He must believe it’s a dream when he wakes with his hands gripping the air near his pillow. I am under those hands, his memory of my chin, shoulders, hips, too real, now distant. I am under those hands, my memory of his thumb against my lips, his fingers woven into mine, his palm flat below my navel. He knows something is wrong. The air should not feel as alive as the woman whose flesh he knew better than his own. Sometimes—I know my Andrew—sometimes he wonders if he’s going mad.
I have the power to stop him, but I don’t. I should not interfere. They are his to destroy.
He takes the crate under his arm, walks quietly downstairs, and closes the door to his father’s study. The midnight blue drapes shut out all light so that the gold piping has no sheen, no color. From a far corner, he pulls a chair close to the hearth. He drops the box to the floor. Andrew takes a letter and tears it into little pieces, throwing them into the fireplace. One scrap has a drawing of a girl turning a cartwheel. The night I wrote that letter, we had spent the afternoon in the park reading under a tree and watching children scamper across the grass. He stacks kindling on top, spreads it out to catch fire.
A match turns to a cinder under the paper, but the wood doesn’t light. He throws in several matches, and bits of wood start to burn, giving off smoke. He takes another letter and throws it near a weak flame. Gray puffs surround his fingers. Andrew’s body gives more heat than the hearth itself.
The door slams against the wall as the light comes on above us.
“I knowed I smelled smoke.” Emmaline walks into the room.
Simon appears behind her with a bucket of water and a quilt twisted around his long neck. His eyes relax when he doesn’t see a fire. “You got the best nose, Ma-Maw.”
With a pivot of his head, Andrew glances across the study.
Emmaline approaches him slowly. “Mr. Andrew, what you lighting a fire for in the dead of August?”
“I’m getting rid of some papers.”
“Some papers?” She glances at the crate. “Simon, put those things away. And close the door when you go out.”
Emmaline rolls Mr. O’Connell’s big leather chair next to Andrew. “Those ain’t school papers.”
“No.” He stares into the fireplace.
“They Miss Razi’s letters?”
“Yes.”
“Why you want to do that?”
Andrew tucks his elbows on his knees and wraps his palms around his forehead.
“I know you miss her. Your heart broke and don’t feel like it ever going to mend. I know how you feel. When my Huey got the Spanish flu and die, well, it felted like the sun went cold and God wouldn’t do nothing to keep me warm again. But you know what, baby, that’s how you know you love someone with all your heart, when the world get so cold without them.”
He reaches for the matches and begins to light them, one by one, pitching the flames, blue as his eyes, into the darkness.
“I seen how she lookted at you, how she talk in that sweet voice when you was around. Miss Razi, she love you. You think she would want you burning her letters like this? Trying to forget her? You not going to forget her. Ever. She going to live inside your soul till you die. You a young man, and you gonna love someone again, and Miss Razi would want it that way. But she would want you to remember all the good times and feelings you had for her. That what going to teach you how to love next time.”
The fire suddenly takes with a violent rush of yellow and orange. It illuminates a silver trail along his cheek, breaking jagged through his unshaved whiskers. Andrew scrapes his face against his arm as he leans to grab the box. He takes a fistful and moves to throw them into the flames.
“Andrew, honey, don’t.” Emmaline places a hand on his forearm.
“I can’t bear to have them,” he says, his voice in fissures. He holds the crate on his lap with both hands. The tears run like quicksilver.
“Let Emmaline keep them safe. For when you ready.”
“They’re private. They’re mine.”
“I won’t read them. Trust me, honey.” Emmaline places her strong hand on his shoulder.
He gathers each fallen letter from the ground, places them into the box, and gives them to her. For a long while, Andrew quietly cries, Emmaline pressing circles around his spine, humming a song both solemn and joyful. I want to kiss her cheek. I blow a little breeze, and the stray coarse hair by her ear tickles her face.
“Thank you, baby,” she whispers. The way she says it, I don’t know if she means Andrew or me.
TWOLLY DOZED in her recliner late in the afternoon. An arts and crafts program played on the television, turned up loud enough to conceal an occasional snuffle. She hugged a large red damask pillow to her narrow chest. She wore a loose cotton top with matching pants. On her feet were slipper boots.
Oblivious to the noise, Amy sat on the den floor, quickly sorting through a turquoise suitcase. There were three clear plastic bins in front of her: photographs, postcards, and various papers. She read nothing, took no second glances, flicked each item in the appropriate hollow. Images and words slipped past faster than I could take them in. A postcard landed address side up. At the bottom of the message were Andrew’s initials.
“Miss Twolly,” Loretta said. “Time for your four o’clock pills.”
Twolly cracked open one eye. “You remembered my applesauce?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s all on your table.” Her daisy petal nails glanced against the wood. “Don’t you drift off again. You been doing that lately.”
With a smirk, Twolly sat up tall. “Catnaps. Beauty rest.”
“You pretty enough. Amy, you mind seeing to her pills? I got a pork roast need basting for y’alls supper.”
“Only if you made that pecan glaze,” Amy said.
“Scott coming? I got those molasses sweet potatoes he likes, too.”
“No, I came alone this weekend.”
Loretta scratched the side of her close-cropped head. Her russet eyes focused on Amy. “You tell that boy we miss him, you hear? We haven’t seen him in a long while. Miss Twolly, I don’t see them pills going down.” She left the room.
Twolly pinched one of half a dozen pills and grabbed her glass of water. “I don’t know why she cooks for me so much. I barely eat anymore.”
“She gets to test her recipes. She’s working hard on that cookbook.”
“She is quite a chef. I like a girl with aspirations. Here go the jelly beans.”
Amy clasped the last handful of miscellany and tossed the smaller pieces in the bins. In her hand was a letter still in its envelope. “You’re sure you don’t mind my reading through all your things? Pictures are one thing, but cards and letters—”
She took a bite of applesauce. “What’s to hide at my age?”
“If you’re sure.” Amy looked at the addresses on the envelope, typed with a clean ribbon. The postmark was still legible, April 19, 1929. It was sent to Miss Etoile Luna Knight from the New York School of Fine and Applied Arts. With a cautious lift of the flap, Amy took out the letter. Twolly had been admitted to the prestigious school, and nearly everyone who had learned the good news wa
s far more excited than she had been.
“Your art school acceptance letter. Why didn’t you go?”
She pushed the red pillow behind her back and stretched her willow limbs. “It would have been such a bohemian thing to do. Little old me, all the way in that big city.”
“But you were so talented. Everyone thought so.”
“I never gave it up entirely. I still made jewelry now and then until my hands couldn’t do the fine work anymore. All ladies had a respectable hobby once upon a time—embroidery or flower gardening or cake decorating.”
“This was more than a hobby. It was a gift.” Amy placed the letter in one pile.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I know you can’t imagine what it was like then. Girls just didn’t run off to art schools. It was practically a scandal that I went to college at all. Experts then said education made women better mothers and wives, but that didn’t make people less suspicious of those who went. It wasn’t natural. What did they need it for anyway? You know, Leonard fought me when our daughter wanted to go to college. I insisted. He thought it would be a waste of money. She would just be there to meet a husband. I reminded him that we were both college graduates, and that we’d met three years after I had my parchment in hand. I told him his engineering degree kept us fed, and mine helped me avoid being a bore at his important office parties.”
“Did you ever regret not going?”
She pruned her lips and squinted her eyes. “Regret is a strong word.”
“If you could make the decision again, what would you choose? Honestly.”
Twolly stared at her great-niece. She settled back and cupped her hands on her lap. “I would go.”
“What changed?”
“I never found out if I was a special talent. I never found out if I was brave. The only girl I ever knew who didn’t seem afraid of anything was Razi. The world be damned. How well she did in her studies, how confident she was, the things she believed in and fought for, like birth control, such a scandal it could have become. It must seem so strange to you, Amy. Your generation has such freedom.” Twolly glanced into the distance, in my direction. “You know, I never told anyone this.”
The Mercy of Thin Air Page 20
