The Mercy of Thin Air

by Ronlyn Domingue

  “Enjoying it?” I notice two boys stamping the ground, waiting to step in.

  “Sure. He’s paying me a decent salary. College life seems to suit you. Someone told me you’re blowing this joint.”

  “Medical school in Chicago.”

  “Really?” Jimmy leads me into another corner. “Stag narrowly avoided.” He stares over my shoulder. “In a minute, sport.”

  “What did you mean by ‘really’?”

  “Well, you’re smart enough. But nobody figured you would actually go through with such a pipe dream once you found a man to settle on. It’s just not done, old girl.”

  “Watch me,” I reply with a little more venom than I intended to spit.

  “In any case, this may be the last dance I get with you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m engaged.”

  “Congratulations. Who’s the girl?”

  “She’s from Mobile. Peggy. Very sweet, good family. I’m nuts about her.”

  “You’re blushing. You’re such a peach.”

  The song ends. Jimmy releases my hand but lightly presses his fingers into the middle of my back. On the periphery, the two boys who were making a dash try to move in casually, but the band puts their instruments to the side. Break time. I wink at them, tap my watchless wrist, nod toward the bandstand, and beckon with my finger. They smile, then flinch at each other.

  “No special guy for you?”

  “And spoil all of this attention? Never.”

  He laughs and puts his hands in his pockets. “I’ve heard otherwise.”

  “I’ve had a steady for more than a year. Andrew O’Connell.”

  “There’s talk of a betting pool on when you’ll get engaged. Quite a coup, snagging a fellow like that.”

  “No coup. I’m irresistible. So is he.”

  “Let me know where you land, will you?”

  “Pos-a-lutely. It was so good to see you, Jimmy, honest to Zeus. Your Peggy is a lucky girl.” My hands latch on his shoulders, and I give him a soft peck on the cheek. Because I can’t resist, I lightly pinch the scar on his chin. “Slide into second.”

  “What a memory. Thanks for the dance. Good night, Razi.”

  Our hands meet and brush apart. I cannot find Andrew, but I see Anna near the punch bowl. As I approach, she waves.

  “We’re being neglected again.” Anna rolls her eyes.

  “As if they don’t see enough of each other.” I take a dainty cup of pineapple punch and look in the boys’ direction. Warren flicks ashes off the porch while Andrew points his clasped fingers at Tom and Alan.

  “I shouldn’t complain. This is all over for Warren soon enough. We’re moving after the wedding. I found out yesterday. Philadelphia. One of Andrew’s cousins got him a job there.”

  “You don’t seem excited.”

  “This is the only home I’ve ever had. I don’t want to leave everyone. I’m not brave in that way. Not like you. You’ll be leaving soon enough for your own adventure, but it’s one you want. I always thought I’d live and die here.”

  “You don’t have to be there forever, Anna.”

  “I know. Look at them. Warren loves to get Andrew stirred up, and he falls for it every time.”

  “He couldn’t survive without a good debate.”

  “He adores you, you know.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “I saw you talking to Corrine earlier. Nice girl, but those two never made sense together. There were other girls, too, of course, dates now and then. For a long time, I thought Andrew was too picky. No one seemed good enough for him. Their families weren’t respectable enough. That wasn’t it. He wanted a girl he could talk to, one who wouldn’t just agree with him about everything. Remember the dinner party last December?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, I confess. I thought it was strange that you left us girls after dinner. I’d heard you were a bit of a baby vamp, so I wondered which of the boys you were really after. Then Warren told me what happened. He said you two didn’t agree at all about whatever the argument was over, but he respected that you stood your ground. As for Andrew, well, he’s known Andrew since they were little, and he said he’s never seen that old boy more taken with a girl in his life.”

  “That’s kind of you to mention.”

  “It’s the truth. I’m very fond of Andrew. We like seeing him so happy.”

  The band comes back, and a fast number starts up.

  “I don’t know about you, but I came to this party to dance. Shall we?” I hold out my hand, and she guffaws loudly.

  “You’re a kook.”

  We shimmy across the dance floor. Couples part to let us by. Several stop in mid-step and begin to clap. Tom notices us first. He gestures a time-out among the boys. Warren stares at me and grins like the devil. He knows who’s responsible for this scene. With no warning, Warren hooks his arm at Andrew’s waist and grabs his wrist. The crowd sways with laughter. The drummer misses a few beats, and both the trumpet player and the clarinetist squeak a whole bar. I expect Andrew to brush off his friend, but instead he takes the lead—Andrew is slightly taller and stronger—moving them in our direction. Anna and I barely keep time as we laugh at our beaux, who suddenly take every step seriously. The song ends with a clamor of hurrahs and applause. We all bow to the audience.

  The band transitions into a slow, easy tune. Andrew whisks me into him. He sweeps his chin lightly down my cheek. “This is better,” he says.

  AMY WAS READING in bed when he knocked on the door. She pulled the covers over her hips and bare legs before she called him in. Scott entered the room like a stranger. They made eye contact again, finally, but there was no hint of the easiness that was once between them. He sat on the edge of the mattress. From the calm look in his eyes and the drop of his shoulders, it was clear he had no intention of fighting.

  “I need to tell you something,” he said.

  She closed the book on her finger and faced him.

  “We both know I was jealous of Jem because he had you. I won’t apologize for the way I felt. I cared about you then. I knew Jem in a way you never did. I didn’t think he deserved you. I never admitted how I felt because, one, it wouldn’t have changed anything and, two, deep down, I wanted to see you happy. You were happy with him.

  “By the time we ran into each other after I moved back here, I had managed to grow up. I’d had a few girlfriends, you know all that. When we started hanging out, I really didn’t have any expectations. It was just nice to catch up. It was strange not to have Chloe or Jem around, and I realized that—before—our friendship had depended on their presence. Our connection wasn’t with each other. It was through them.”

  Amy remained silent.

  “Remember that night you invited me to your boss’s Christmas party? We got bored and went for ice cream? It was freezing, and you took my arm as we walked back to the car. You didn’t mean anything by it, nothing romantic anyway, but that’s when I had no doubt you were absolutely comfortable around me. I knew we were good friends.”

  “I remember,” she said.

  “When things started to change between us, I realized I’d only been infatuated before. I liked the idea of you. I was surprised when I felt somewhat guilty for falling in love with you. We didn’t talk about Jem, but he always seemed to be around. I did wonder what he’d think. And then I felt guilty because I felt that I’d won. As if I’d been vindicated somehow, like this was the way things were supposed to turn out. That’s awful, I know.”

  She didn’t reply and began to smooth the flat sheet against the mattress.

  “Maybe we should have talked more about Jem. It had been so long, though. He had been dead six, almost seven years by the time we started to date. But I underestimated him—when he was alive and after he was gone. And you underestimated how much he still means, too.”

  “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “No, but you did hide. We never talked about his death. Sometimes, we
mentioned something we’d all done together or a movie he liked, but nothing else. I have no idea what you went through after he died. And then, for me to find out that you were pregnant. What good did it do to keep quiet?”

  Amy wouldn’t look at him. “It was my private issue. No one had to know.”

  “I’m not some stranger on a plane. I’m your husband.”

  “That doesn’t give you a right to my every thought.”

  “But it’s like you don’t trust me.”

  “I trust you. There are some things too hard to talk about.”

  Scott placed his hand on her covered shin. “Listen. I’m still angry. I can’t breathe sometimes, this feels so bad. But I love you. I want to work this out. I think we can. You’ll have to want it, too. Deep inside, you probably believe that you and Jem would still be together if he hadn’t died. I agree. But that’s not how things turned out.

  “You have to make a choice. We can salvage this relationship, if you truly love me, if you truly want to, or we can go our separate ways. In either case, you’re going to have to confront Jem’s memory. If you don’t, well, I can’t imagine how very sad your life could turn out to be.”

  “He’s dead. What else is there to confront?”

  “How did you feel about missing his funeral?”

  She curled her bare knees inches from her chin. “It didn’t matter. He was gone.”

  “Do you know what the funeral was like?”

  “Chloe told me later.”

  “Did you talk to his parents after the accident?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “Did you know his mom had an empty chair next to her at the grave site for you?”

  Amy almost looked up but jerked her muscles in check. “No.”

  “She did. You got along well with his family. Jem said that a couple of times.” He paused. “Did you ever go to see them later?”

  “No.”

  “So you’ve never been to his grave.”

  “No,” she said, her voice constricted. She tucked her head onto her bent knees.

  “This is as bad as it gets. The truth is out. Part of you still loves him, but the other part loves me. I know it. Right now, you get to choose who wins out. I love you, but I’m not willing to linger much longer. For your sake, make peace. Knock if you need me.”

  He stood up, smoothed the hair away from her forehead, and kissed the crescent of skin he revealed. As he walked away, Scott looked tranquil and resolute.

  DURING THE NEXT few days, their paths crossed more often, but they still retired to separate rooms. She brought work home instead of staying at the office. His schedule changed again so that he didn’t have late evenings at the pharmacy. Although the dining room table was still a genealogical disaster area, a corner had been cleared so that two people could eat at the same time. One Saturday night, they watched a movie together. Amy made popcorn.

  Before she went to bed, earlier than Scott, as always, Amy peeked into the guest room to tell him good night. Each evening, they chatted a little longer—how far had he gotten on his puzzle, what she was reading now, what tomorrow’s schedule would be—and whether she noticed, she had stopped tying her red plaid robe and clutching it as tightly at her chest.

  When the lights went off, Amy did not slip under the covers alone. Jem was beside her. He misted across her open eyes. She stared straight at the ceiling, thought projecting into the space. There were times her face revealed her feelings, a cheek-blossom smile, soft lids with a softer lip, narrow brow wrinkles and tight jaw. When she cried, she wrapped into her pillows as sound roared under her sternum and suffocated at her throat. There were times that his hands moved within her own, over her, remembering. Little by little each night, as Jem’s essence dissipated before she fell asleep, the sheets began to hold hints of the man who once shared her bed.

  Then one morning, she went through her usual routine, left for work, and returned twenty minutes later to an empty house. Amy carefully hung her outfit and changed into a T-shirt and shorts. She dragged a sturdy chair under the attic entry, gripped the cord with both hands, and yanked with all her strength. The hinges stretched and groaned. The ladder fell out halfway.

  Amy brought eight boxes of various sizes from the attic into the front room. She emptied the contents of each one across the floor, spreading the treasures into a single layer. School notebooks, photographs, men’s clothing—several shirts for different seasons, a green windbreaker, brown belt, two pairs of jeans, a paisley tie, one holey pair of boxer shorts—brochures, news clippings, yin-yang button, brush, toothbrush, bottle of cologne, postcards, incense, scraps of paper, cards, letters, a small diamond ring.

  She stripped to her dainties and selected a pair of faded blue jeans and a wash-worn flannel shirt. Her petite body shrank into the drape of the fabrics as she sat among the items. Amy placed her hands on opposite shoulders and swept her fingers slowly downward. Her fingertips brushed the white thread patch at her right shin. With a hesitant stretch, Amy reached for the incense and cologne. She inhaled the arid, exotic spiciness of a russet-colored stick. Then, the top off the cologne, she brought the scent to her nose. A sharp, soft whimper lifted in her throat, and her eyes turned glossy. She pressed two fingertips to the bottle’s opening, angled the vessel until the amber liquid touched her, and anointed herself at the hollow of her neck.

  She wiped her cheek with a flanneled arm. Her wedding band caught at the first knuckle and came away with a jolt. She let it roll inches away, it could not go far, and then reached for the ring Jem had intended for her. It fit still and looked delicate on her fine hand.

  For hours, Amy cleared spaces among the mementos and held each one, studied each treasure in turn. She took breaks but never for a second longer than necessary. She wasted no more time.

  After four that day, she called Scott at work to say she was home. She asked him to give her time alone, well into the evening.

  “Why? You’re okay?” he asked. “You haven’t, you aren’t . . .”

  “Please, Scott. There’s something I have to finish.”

  “I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything. Stay there.”

  “I’m okay. You don’t understand. I can’t face him with you here.”

  “What?”

  “Jem. He’s out. I brought him out.”

  “You’re scaring me. I’m coming home.”

  “Don’t. You don’t need to see this. Please. Go to the movies, get something to eat, come home later, well after dark.”

  “You’re not going to do something to yourself?”

  “Nothing you should worry about. I promise.”

  When she hung up, Amy went back into the room and grabbed a stack of cassette tapes. The fall light paled as she listened to dozens of songs, some over again. All the while, she fondled the shirt that swallowed her whole.

  Night inked into every room. Only the dim streetlights guided Amy’s steps to the bookcase. She found the disc she had stored there and placed it in the DVD player. With the pictures moving, she fast-forwarded to the end. The frames slowed to real time when Jem’s sandaled feet appeared. The volume rose at the sound of his voice, a strong baritone.

  When the party shots began to roll, Amy cried. She had not seen any of the footage from this point on. The camera panned a dining room connected to a small kitchen entry. There, near the doorway, Jem’s shoulders—covered in the shirt Amy was wearing as she watched his image—arched out and down. Two arms moved across his lower back. Jem suddenly turned his face to the lens and shook his head, clearly communicating not now. As the camera moved back, Amy could be seen pressed against him, her face near the political buttons he wore, her nose touching the yin-yang symbol on his chest. The microphone hummed with music and chatter. Jem told her, It’ll be okay. We’ll have the whole drive up. Sex in at least one strange bed . . . He nudged her, and she smiled. Thanksgiving will be here before you know it. This is only temporary.

  A blood-iron gust escaped her lips as the wail
rushed from her core. She did not stop it, did not try. Her body, overwhelmed, rocked with the intensity. So much at once.

  I wanted to take her to me, the instinct to comfort. I wanted to brush the wet streaks from her face and stroke the length of her back. My touch could not be trusted to soothe. Instead, a cool, sweet breeze began to spiral around her. Amy’s tears evaporated before they dropped to her chin. She breathed more steadily. She looked up and noticed that the ceiling fan was not on. She wiped her dry cheeks with mild surprise.

  When Scott returned close to eleven, Amy was in the front room in the rocking chair, still surrounded by Jem’s possessions. In her lap were his clothes that she’d worn that day. Scott called to her, frightened. She answered him.

  He stood at the doorway but did not turn on the light. He stared at the floor.

  “I won’t be home next weekend,” she said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “New Jersey.”

  I could not follow Amy on the trip. I knew all too well that shared grief is a misery too raw to witness.

  DADDY ONCE TALKED to Andrew as easily as he did to me. Now they stand across from each other near the stairs, avoiding each other’s eyes, silent. Grams spaces dining room chairs around the circular table she had my father take from the attic and centers one large candle. Mother draws Daddy’s wingback further into a shadow, out of the way.

  My grandmother begins to pace near the front door. She pulls the curtains away from the window and peers through the wavy glass. Her appearance is no different, but she trembles almost imperceptibly. Mother sits on the edge of the davenport. With a gentle caress, she sweeps a lock of amber strands smooth against her temple. Her cheeks are pale and taut; she looks too thin. Daddy is completely gray, and his eyebrows appear frozen at the skin. Andrew blinks as if he has just awakened from a restless sleep.

  At the knock, Grams rushes to the door and opens it with force.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Burrat.” The woman’s eyes are black, so black her pupils don’t exist, and her hair is a burnished pewter. Long, spatulate! fingers reach for Grams, and the two women clasp hands briefly. She looks at the others in the room, inspects them, and nods. The brilliant violet scarf around her neck falls to her flat bosom. When she drapes it back into place, her silver bracelets rattle, and one ring of five snags on the fabric, pulling a filament loose as spider silk. Her dress bodice is fit close, but her skirt falls in an antiquated cascade of layers.