The Mercy of Thin Air

by Ronlyn Domingue

Then I hear my parents. I stop in mid-twirl and watch them hug under the narrow jut of the back porch, their cheeks wet with tears. They are laughing so much that they have to hold each other up. They look funny. I point at them and say, “Don’t cry,” which only makes them laugh harder.

  Daddy releases my mother and kicks his shoes down the steps. He pulls off his socks and walks toward me, unbuttoning his shirt, which is on the ground by the time he takes my hand. “The water’s fine, Claire.” He starts to sing “Beautiful Dreamer.” I hold his finger and twirl under him.

  Mother’s slender feet join ours. Her voice harmonizes with his. I let go of my father and turn several clumsy pirouettes away. Their bodies move into a close waltz. Mother clutches Daddy’s wet undershirt against his chest, and Daddy nudges a drippy curl of hair behind her ear.

  I clap as the song ends. “Again, again!”

  Daddy opens his arms. The water splashes my sleek legs. He gathers me up, his whiskers stippling my wet face, pulls my mother into us, and begins to sing as the rain falls in time to the music.

  AMY CONTINUED to visit Twolly almost every other weekend. Invigorated by the attention and the photo project, and perhaps the cool October weather, Twolly had begun to clear rooms she hadn’t touched in years. Full closets were purged of clothes that had miraculously come back into style, a boon for Amy’s wardrobe. Old business records filled several garbage bags. She set aside all snapshots and miscellany for her great-niece.

  While Twolly and Amy were distracted by their organizing, I scoured the boxes for signs of him. I had yet to find a single letter that Andrew had sent. My memory kept a tally of the postcards he’d mailed—dates, locations, business or pleasure, and, I realized, no mention of a family. Within several weekends, I discovered a pattern of correspondence from Pennsylvania, which often conveyed Warren and Anna Tripp’s regards for Twolly.

  Months earlier, as Barrett Burrat, I had sent a concise letter to the only Warren Tripp Jr. I could find through a computer search. I had received no response, and I especially wanted one after I found a reference to Andrew’s work, a direct acknowledgment I’d never seen before. In November 1953, Andrew wrote, Classical education dead. Moot court worst ever. I fear for their clients. The postmark—Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

  Twolly, too, had not replied to the letter asking for her memories of friends and fun at Tulane and Newcomb. The letter was still on her kitchen counter, a layer of dust on the torn edge of the envelope. I knew that her days were not so full to cause such a delay. Although I didn’t want to, I had begun to resent her silence.

  One afternoon, over cake and coffee, Twolly placed a bright yellow hatbox on the kitchen table. The interior was half full. Amy pushed the layers around. There was nothing but dust, photographs, and paper.

  “These are from my girlhood,” Twolly said. “Look at my hair, how long it was. My sister Fleur would braid it so tight that I always looked surprised. Maybe that’s why I don’t look my age. She firmed me for life.” She lifted an Easter postcard. “I hope I have a picture of me with that bonnet. You know what? There’s another one of these boxes somewhere. My daughter’s old room, maybe. Or the attic.”

  “One room at a time, Aunt Twolly. Don’t wear yourself out.” Amy gently closed the box.

  Twolly watched Amy trace the daisies on the placemat. “This all isn’t taking up too much of your time, is it?”

  “I want to do this. Honestly. I don’t mean to sound morbid, but you’re the only one left.” Amy reached across the table. The photographs she had already scanned were organized in a new, acid-free box labeled “Knight Family” on all sides. “Where do you want me to put these?”

  “The closet we’re cleaning now. At least you’ll know where they are, too.” Twolly finished her coffee and wiped a creamy mustache from her lip. “Ready to start?”

  Amy grabbed a large envelope on the edge of the table. “Wait. I want to show you these.” One by one, she laid out the photographs Chloe had discovered under the drawer.

  Twolly looked at three and giggled. “Oh, my. Oh, my. Where did you find them?”

  “They were hidden in our bookcase.”

  “Bookcase?”

  “We bought it in New Orleans a few months ago. My friend Chloe—you met a long time ago—she found them under a drawer. I kept forgetting to bring them to show you. I thought you could help me figure out how old they are.”

  My friend peered closely at another, then another. Suddenly, the perfume I once wore released from her. “Oh, my God. It can’t be. It’s simply not possible. How in the world—”

  “You’re not offended, are you? I thought you’d find them interesting.”

  “I’m not offended. That naughty girl. After all this time, still shocking people.” She waved my naked body in the air with one hand while the other pulled more images toward her. “This is Razi. She had quite a lovely figure, didn’t she?”

  Amy’s eyes glimmered. “Are you sure?”

  “Without a doubt. There, see this one? That impish little smile. That’s Razi.”

  “I didn’t recognize her. So who took the photos? They’re not like any nudes I’ve seen before from those times. These are more artistic.”

  Twolly didn’t look up. In a blast, his scent filled the space between them. “A beau. It must have been.”

  “Was one of her boyfriends a photographer?”

  “Most people had little Kodaks in those days.”

  “The quality is more professional. Even the paper feels different. Thicker.” Amy paused and ran her thumb along the white edge of an especially revealing shot. “Could it have been the same boy in the picture I found a few weeks ago? Andrew.”

  “Andrew. Of course.”

  “Quick—before you think too hard—what was his last name?”

  Twolly caressed my face, shaking. “Oh, honey, I can’t remember everything. It’s been so long.”

  “Why are you blushing?”

  “I—a girl shouldn’t see her dear old friend naked like this.”

  Amy smiled mischievously. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re trembling. And you’re flustered. Did you have a crush on him? Aunt Twolly, did you have a little romance with this Andrew?” Amy pinched Twolly’s arm, barely touching her skin. “Or maybe one that wasn’t so little? It was the 1920s, after all.”

  “As if—no indeed,” Twolly said, indignant, as she gathered the stills into a pile. Her movement stirred the smell of him in billows. “I’m freezing. Aren’t you cold? Did Loretta touch the thermostat again?” She left the room hugging her shoulders.

  Amy rubbed her arms hard, then stored my photographs in the envelope. When she left, the air above the table remained icy. I could detect nothing except Andrew’s scent, his scent alone.

  I was unsure what to make of the strength of his presence.

  CHLOE HAD NOT abandoned them. Although she didn’t call their home, certainly aware that neither would reveal much if the other were present, she kept in touch. Sometimes when Amy checked e-mail, there was an inquiry or reply from her friend. The communication was so brief in writing that they must have talked at some point to fill in the gaps.

  Scott received messages, too. Chloe sent an occasional joke or link to an item of interest, sometimes with a little note that stated she hoped he was okay. Days after Amy told him of the miscarriage, Chloe wrote to him: You know about the pregnancy now. I thought she’d told you a long time ago. I couldn’t have told anyway—it wasn’t my place. I’ll bet you’re pissed and hurt, but be kind to her, Scott. He had written back, I’m trying but the miscarriage isn’t the issue. No doubt you know what I mean.

  The evening after he replied to her e-mail, Chloe called. Amy was still at work, and Chloe knew this because they had spoken minutes before.

  “Sit down,” Chloe said, “because you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”

  He leaned against the kitchen counter. “What?” />
  “You’re going to have to face how you feel about Jem, too.”

  “Don’t make this my problem. I’m not the one still carrying a torch.”

  “You’re still carrying a grudge. It’s ridiculous at this point, and it’s not fair. He had no idea how deeply you felt about her—”

  “I’m sure he sensed it.”

  “Who didn’t think she was the cutest little demure thing they’d ever seen? You know you weren’t the only guy who had a crush on her. Jem got one hell of a rise out of that. Amy never noticed because she’s dense that way. You know it firsthand.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You never believed they belonged together, but you based that on what Jem was like before they met. When we first got to know each other, he wasn’t the most upstanding guy. I did worry a little when they started dating.”

  “Chloe, you tried to set her up with me a couple of times. You were more than worried. You were playing matchmaker, and not for him.”

  “She was such an innocent. I wanted to watch out for her,” she said.

  “So did I.”

  “And we were both wrong about the whole thing. Whether or not it makes sense to you, they worked. Their devotion was real. Their love was real. What do you think would have happened if Jem hadn’t died?” Scott was silent. Chloe waited another moment. “Would they still be together?”

  “Who knows?”

  “You’re hedging. You know they were one of those couples who actually could have made it. That bugs you. Even now. Even though he’s dead. Even though you got the girl. But the truth is, you still see this as a pissing match.”

  “She still loves him.”

  “Of course she does. If you were the one she loved first and you were dead, would you want her to stop loving you?”

  “I would want her to move on.”

  “That’s not the question.”

  “I suppose I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “This is what I’ve been thinking. You cared about Jem. I’m sure you loved him in that distant way men do. There were a lot of good times, and except for Amy, there was nothing else between you. He would be glad that you and Amy are together. He would want this to work out, for both of your sakes.”

  “Nice try, but the fact is, she’s not over him.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She told me about the DVD. Whatever you caught there did something to her. Get this straight. I can deal with the miscarriage. I was actually relieved when I thought that’s all she was hiding. Then she told me how much she still misses him. If it were just that, I could handle it. I’m not an asshole. I’ll admit it—I miss him, too, sometimes. But when she started cleaning the house like a maniac and became celibate overnight—that’s not normal.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Scott rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. The room began to smell of freshly mowed grass and a dry-cleaned suit.

  “What?” Chloe asked.

  “I just thought of his burial. There was an empty chair next to his mom. She made sure no one took the seat. I knew it was meant for Amy. I remember thinking how glad I was that I didn’t have to see her sit there. I felt like she was spared a part of the unbearable.” He was silent. “But she wasn’t spared. That’s it. She took a shortcut.”

  “Hmm. That simple?”

  “It’s a place to start.”

  Dear Mr. Burrat,

  My wife has been reminding me to write you for weeks. I finally made myself sit down to reply when I got your second letter. I hope this hasn’t stalled your work, not that what I have to say will necessarily help your research that much.

  It’s really too bad that my parents are dead because they would have written volumes for you, but my mother died in 1969, and my father died in 1975. Mr. O and Dad got along well, it seemed. They shared an interest in current events, so that’s what they would talk about most of the time. Now, my father could argue about anything until he was blue in the face—get downright obnoxious sometimes. But Mr. O would listen respectfully, give his side on the issue, and change the topic. My father would try to egg him on, but nothing riled up Mr. O. I admired his composure, even when I was a kid. I’m sure you’ve heard this from other people you’ve interviewed.

  You referenced a note that you obtained, dated November 1953, and asked for confirmation regarding Mr. O’s residence at the time. I was in my last year of high school then, and I recall that he came to dinner every few weeks. He was at Penn Law for two semesters and lived somewhere in the city, an apartment I would assume. Before and after that, however, he would come to visit my folks and his relatives in the area about every other year. He came alone often; rarely did his wife join him. Mrs. O was a great lady from what I recall. She was a small blond woman with a nice laugh. Mom got along well with Mrs. O. They seemed to have a lot in common.

  I always got the feeling that Mrs. O didn’t quite measure up for my parents, though. Occasionally, they would talk about Mr. O’s sweetheart who passed away. They would get unusually nostalgic—and sad, very sad. They had liked that young woman, Rahzee. They would shake their heads and say “Poor Andrew” whenever they’d bring up her name, and never in Mr. O’s presence. I got the impression that it was a taboo subject.

  I rather miss seeing old Mr. O. He was a quiet, generous man. He gave me good advice when I was trying to pick a law school and wrote a recommendation to Boston University on my behalf. That alumni edge got me in more so than my grades, I’m sure. In the early days of my career, I would occasionally call him up for advice. He had a knack for bulletproof arguments.

  He truly cared about my parents, too. He kept ties with them no matter how far apart they lived. I guess that’s how it goes with old friends. I know that’s true for me. Mr. O was devoted to them, even in the end. He was on the first plane out when they each died. I was devastated by the loss of my parents, but the toll seemed especially hard on him. You could see in his eyes that he was a deeply sensitive man.

  You didn’t mention whether Mr. O is still living. Is he? If so, would you mind sending me his number and address? I’d like to check on him. My parents would appreciate it if I did. I shouldn’t have let him get so far out of touch. You know how to reach me if I can be of any further assistance.

  Very Truly Yours, Warren Tripp, Jr., Esquire

  At least I had new leads to follow, more connections to draw me to Andrew again. I simply had not anticipated that he would take a quieter, less prestigious route toward the same goal. I fully expected him to attend Yale, what he always planned, and puzzled over why he chose not to go. Although the letter from Warren’s son was affectionate and helpful, it told—as others had—of an Andrew I hardly recognized. To think that the interactions between him and Warren had lost a former zeal. And still, what truly became of him remained out of my reach.

  ANDREW AND I talk on the veranda, and a girl I don’t know approaches confidently. He greets her with a warm handshake and introduces us.

  Corrine is a girl he once loved. He has told me that they were steadies in the fall of their second year in college, but the romance was over by the following spring. Andrew enjoyed her company until he realized they shared few interests. At about the same time, she hoglawed out of school—a scholar she wasn’t—and spent her days shopping and lunching. He ended it, and was grateful that the parting had no drama. He sensed she had only been trying to figure out how to get out of it, too.

  I notice that Corrine is a traditional beauty with bright, wide blue eyes, amber hair, and a full mouth and bosom. Her smile reveals even ivory teeth, all the same size. We learn that she is doing charity work and is engaged to a young man who graduated from Loyola. Then Warren suddenly appears, gives her a brusque hello, clamps Andrew’s shoulder, and pulls him away. Andrew calls out his apologies.

  “He’s a dear,” Corrine says. “The most mannerly boy I ever dated.”

  “I’d say the same.”

  “Does he still have those l
ong discussions about politics?”

  “He hasn’t figured out that cynicism is chic.”

  “Well, at least he has a passion about something.”

  “He certainly does.”

  “I’m sure we’ve never met before, but your name seems familiar. Isn’t there a Mr. Nolan on the Cotton Exchange?”

  “My father owns an advertising business.”

  “Really? Then how did you meet Andrew?”

  “His birthday party year before last. Lots of people from school were there.”

  “What are you studying?

  “Science. I’m going to medical school in the fall.”

  “Really? How does Andrew feel about that?”

  “He’s going to miss me.”

  “Oh, look, there’s my fiancé. It was a delight to meet you. Give my best to Andrew, would you? Have a lovely evening.”

  “Thank you, Corrine. You have the same.” She disappears through a group of girls. I follow behind, and she lands on the arm of a man in his late twenties. For a moment, I scan the dance floor. A couple of stags notice that my arms are free.

  “Good evening, Miss Nolan,” says a voice to my right.

  “Jimmy Reynolds. I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s every little thing?”

  “Dandy. How’s the old girl?”

  Before I can answer, he rushes me to the edge of the dance floor, away from the stag line. This violation of etiquette amuses me. I look up at his face. He hasn’t changed that much since he was twelve. Freckles along his nose, cowlick at his temple, crescent scar on his chin. He has finesse now; he understands where his hands go.

  Whether it’s from the heat outside or Jimmy’s hand, the last of the bath powder at the small of my back melts toward my coccyx.

  “There goes the dainty dusting I gave myself, right down the spine.” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The icing has melted down the cake.”

  Jimmy cuts his eyes at me, then laughs.

  “Where’ve you been hiding yourself?” I ask.

  “Alabama. Mobile. I’m managing my father’s new hardware store.”