Oh, the costume is perfect.
My grandmother introduces Madame Boliva to Andrew and my parents. She takes each person’s hand and searches their eyes. I will Andrew to cross his left one, the strange trick that always made me laugh, but he doesn’t. He shows her no disrespect. His eyes are brighter tonight than they have been in weeks, but the shine is feverish and the color is subdued. My parents bow their heads after the greeting. Mother slips her arm around Daddy’s waist, and he rests his hand at the small of her back. When he kisses her forehead lightly, Andrew looks away.
Their complacency is maddening. This time, they’ve humored my grandmother too much.
Madame Boliva asks that the candles be lit and all other illumination extinguished. Andrew offers a packet of matches from his pocket, and Daddy turns off every lamp, even the porch light. The table’s center glows while the rest of the room fades into vague shapes. She invites them to sit. Madame Boliva, then Grams, Andrew, Mother, Daddy.
“I have been called here tonight to reach the spirit of Raziela, beloved daughter, granddaughter, sweetheart,” Madame Boliva says. “She has recently left our world but is not far away, I assure you. In the next few moments, I will ask that we join hands to connect our energy. Please do not be alarmed when I slip into my trance. I may vocalize strange sounds and move about. This is not unusual and simply a manifestation of my powers.” The woman pauses to look at each person’s face.
Yes, your powers.
“Are there any questions before we begin?” she asks.
“Will she appear?” I am surprised at Andrew. What is he thinking?
“Materializations are rare, but it is possible. There are many other signs the departed can use to show that she is with us. She may appear through ectoplasm, a mysterious whitish substance, or she may manipulate objects. Does anyone else have a question? No. Very good. Then we shall begin. Please, everyone, join hands. Hold tight. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply, for breath is the essence of life. In your minds, picture your Raziela. Keep her image fixed before you.”
Madame Boliva begins to sway, first from side to side, then clockwise, her forearms pressed into the table as she links hands with Grams and Daddy. “Oh, spirits, open your portal. Allow one of your own to join us now. We ask for Raziela, dear Raziela. Join us, loved one, join your family.”
I peek under the table. Madame Boliva has removed her right shoe. A toe reaches toward her left ankle and scratches. I wait. There’s something under that skirt, I know it.
“Spirits, find Raziela among you. I beseech you to invite her to return for a moment. Bring peace to this grieving family.”
No one speaks. Daddy opens one eye, scans the table all around, and closes it again. I want to hug him.
“Wait. I feel a presence,” Madame Boliva says. She squints her eyes to look around, then locks her spine and sits with her bosom pitched forward. She blows lightly on the candles and makes each flame twist. “It is a bright energy. Oh, how it nearly blinds me.” Although everyone’s eyes are supposed to be closed, she still whips her face over her left shoulder and winces. “Listen. There is a growing wind.” From her throat flows a strange noise, a waver more than a wail, but it sounds as if it comes from the opposite corner of the room.
Grams immediately straightens her back. Andrew opens his eyes and looks around the room. Mother and Daddy tighten the clasp between them.
“Mother. Call to your child,” Madame Boliva says.
The woman who told me to be silent in Sunday school but did not expect me to believe says nothing. She is crying, mercury streams at her cheeks.
“You cannot speak. I understand. Father, is it in your power?”
“Raziela. Rah—zee,” he says, as if this is a macabre game of hide-and-seek.
“Oh, it grows stronger.”
“Raziela, come to us,” Grams whispers.
Madame Boliva starts to shimmy at the hips. Tiny bell-like sounds rise around her. Above the table, there is no vibration in her hands. “She laughs. She is not sad.”
Oh, for the love of Zeus.
Suddenly, the bottom of the front door turns blurry. A naked child emerges through the oak. She had been no more than three years old. One so young I would not have expected to wander. As Madame Boliva implores me to come to them, I approach the little girl.
Her form is opaque. She has been between at least as long as I have, six weeks, perhaps longer. I can tell that she once had olive skin, wide brown eyes, and brown hair. She realizes that I’m coming toward her, that I see her, and she doesn’t move. Her hands dangle at her chest like a squirrel’s. Yes, I see you. I’m Razi. What’s your name?
Donna.
Don’t be scared. Are you lost?
She nods.
Why did you come in here?
The bells. They’re pretty.
Stay with me, Donna. Don’t leave. I’ll help you.
I am furious, that this sham is being performed in front of my family, that this child roams naked and no one has helped her, that I did indeed join them tonight, only to witness their ridiculous complacency. With a gust, I suffocate the candles. Madame Boliva demands that everyone remain in place—my spirit is there.
Donna leaves my side and takes a book from Grams’s end table. She holds it in her hands, then releases it with a little push. In this darkness, they can barely see it float right-side up toward the door. When it hits the leaded glass, the book falls with barely a thump. The noise makes the vision real.
Donna shoves a vase toward the ground. It doesn’t break. She giggles. She grabs as many magazines as her arms can hold, and a paper geyser suddenly erupts to the ceiling. Donna claps, and the lights flicker with every meeting of her tiny palms.
Come here, little girl. Don’t touch.
I try to immobilize her with an electromagnetic cyclone, but the energy pulls out of my control. The framed photos near the stairs rattle against the wall. The glass shatters. Needle-sharp splinters fall to the wood floor, the sound of a thousand miniature bells. Each photo—of Grandfather, me, our doughboy Roger—drops to the ground. My uncle Roger’s face drifts toward my feet. Glass shards spike through his head, neck, shoulders. How strange. He had died in a rain of shrapnel and bullets.
Madame Boliva watches the torn pages flutter. “We acknowledge you, Raziela. What message do you have for your loved ones?”
My family searches the room with anxious eyes.
The child walks around the table and taps each set of clasped hands, which pulls away at the contact—Mother and Andrew, Andrew and Grams, Grams and Madame, Madame and Daddy. My father drapes his arm toward the empty space. Donna immediately crawls into his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. When he appears to press her small dense form into him—an embrace of instinct—she curls against his body and places her right hand on his chest.
“Claire,” he says, frightened—his torso jolts forward in a tremor—the chair rocks under him.
“Leave him alone!” I yell at the child, who sits up straight, turns to me, and jumps down. I realize in an instant that Donna has no idea what she has done.
“She reached you, Father,” Madame Boliva says.
I rush toward her—I want to hurt her, burn her skin, melt away the costume. This woman has no clue what she called forth. She feels the heat, protects her face with her arms, and screams.
The circle breaks. My family shouts in reply, tearing away from the table. I am furious, and the walls knock—I cannot control myself—the more I try, the louder they get, until Daddy staggers to the light switch and exposes the tableau.
Everyone is standing. Mother’s hands are pressed to her mouth. Grams stares at the ground by Madame Boliva’s feet. The medium points her toe near her loose shoe and the fallen bells. Andrew hangs his head, his fists in knots. In a corner, the mysterious child holds herself, her eyes wide and brimming.
“She reached you,” Madame Boliva says, her voice authoritative. “What a dramatic display. Even I have never felt something
so strong. She is powerful.”
“Madam,” Andrew says, “you have absolutely no idea.”
“That was not my daughter,” Daddy says. His right hand guards his heart.
“You cannot question what you witnessed. And you, Mr. Nolan, she made contact with you.” Madame is firm, sincere.
“That was not my daughter.” Daddy storms toward her and kicks the bells across the room. “I don’t know what trickery—what strange mesmerism—you brought into my house, madam. It was a cruel thing to do to a family at a time like this.”
“Barrett, please,” Mother whispers.
“Leave. Now.” Daddy is enraged enough to strike the woman.
Madame Boliva lowers her face, steps into her shoe, and walks to the door. She lets herself out. A metallic breeze flows past her, warning of a violent storm on its way. The knob mechanism clicks softly as the door closes.
Daddy swallows hard. “Lily, don’t you ask me to do this again. Ever.”
“Darling,” Mother says.
“Claire, don’t—I need a drink.” Daddy rubs the sweat from his brow and heads toward his study.
“Oh, what happened?” Grams says. “Never have I seen such a thing. Never have I felt such a presence.”
My mother peers at Grams, then Andrew. She can’t deny what she has seen, but it is not her nature to discuss what she hasn’t settled in her own mind. Andrew, who is usually so quick with appropriate words, remains silent. Instead of sharing his thoughts, he takes my grandmother’s hand, then Mother cradles her left arm. Andrew’s entire body becomes tense and rigid when Grams and Mother begin to cry.
Within moments, Mother steels herself. “Let’s get you settled upstairs,” she says finally to Grams. “Andrew, you’re welcome to stay. I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Thank you, but I should be going.”
Grams kisses him on the cheek, then Mother clasps her hands on either side of his tense jaw. “Oh, Andrew,” her voice breaks, strained and weak, “don’t become a stranger.” She kisses him, too.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll say good night to Mr. Nolan and see myself out.”
AS ANDREW walks down the hall toward my father’s study, I turn to Donna, who is still in the corner. Come with me, baby. We can’t leave yet. I urge her to walk ahead. She moves slowly, looking in every direction. I am tempted to hold her hand but know I should not. I’m unsure of what might happen.
Andrew stops at the study’s threshold, squares his shoulders, and summons the will to walk into the space. Daddy stands in front of his desk, staring at his wall of books.
“Mr. Nolan, I’m leaving. I wanted to wish you good night,” Andrew says.
“You know what she did once?” Daddy’s back is to the door. “She took every book on the shelf and rearranged them in the opposite order. Aristotle to Yeats, top left to right and down, became Yeats to Aristotle. It took me a month to realize what had happened. She never let on about what she did. She waited for me to find her out.” He tilts his head back briefly. I hear him swallow. “Everything is out of order, Andrew. She should not have gone first.”
“Yes, sir.”
Daddy turns around. His glass is coated with a brown glaze. He attempts not to blink. When he does, a tear hangs at his lashes. “How has it been for you?”
“Difficult.”
“With feelings. I know you have them.”
Andrew stares at him. He holds his breath and tells the truth. “Agony.”
“I think she’s here sometimes. I sense her. Smell her. It’s my mind playing tricks, I know. I know. My baby—” Daddy’s voice cracks. “My baby would find that funny, appropriate. The imagination at work. Does that happen to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s as if, for that instant, she’s not gone. What’s strange is that I live for those moments. If I didn’t have them, I don’t think I could bear this grief. What happened tonight—” He fills his glass again. “Want some?”
“Yes, sir.”
Daddy takes a second glass from his desk drawer and pours a double shot for Andrew. They drink in silence within yards of each other. I raise my ethereal hand toward my father’s face and wave a breeze to dry his tears. When he appears to look at me, I startle and the room echoes with a succession of firecracker pops.
“Did you hear that?” Andrew asks.
“Automobile backfired.”
“No. I hear those all the time.”
“Your own unique shellshock, perhaps.”
“Mr. Nolan, I—” Andrew swallows a mouthful and squints against the burn. “I want you to know—that I loved—love—her.”
“Andrew, don’t you think I could see that?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose you could.”
“I have something. I wasn’t sure when I should give it to you. For some reason, I thought there would be a right time. A best time.” He takes a small metal box from a side drawer. Andrew reaches across the desk to take it from him, then pauses.
The letter I’d forgotten on my way to his house that day. It had not been thrown out with my belongings.
“I thought Claire was cleaning out her room too soon. I was afraid something important would be thrown away. I found a package addressed to Twolly on her vanity. I put a few items I thought she’d like to have in there, too, some jewelry, and mailed it to her. She sent me a note to say she was glad to receive it. And that letter, it was already addressed to you. It was sealed then. I never opened it, I swear.”
Andrew places his empty glass on the desk, takes the envelope, and touches the seal. My scent, the one only he has ever known, rises between him and my father. “Thank you.”
“Well, yes, you’re welcome.” Daddy wipes his face and finishes his drink. “When do you leave for Yale?”
“Three weeks.”
“I’m glad you’re going. She would want that as well.” He pauses. “I will miss our discussions.”
“I will, too. You are a formidable debater.”
“And you are a true champion.” Daddy extends his hand.
Andrew shakes my father’s hand with respectful seriousness. Daddy, however, doesn’t let go when the gesture should end. He looks at the man he has grown to love as a son, although he has never admitted so. I wince as Daddy bursts into tears, covers his face with his free hand, then reaches that arm toward Andrew, drawing him in. My daddy clings to Andrew.
When they step apart, they mash their arms into their faces and clear their throats.
“Good luck, Andrew. You’re a bully fellow.”
Andrew tucks my letter into the front pocket of his trousers. “Likewise. Good night, Mr. Nolan.” He leaves with his expression composed and uncompromised.
I want to go with Andrew this instant but know I cannot. Not yet. There is the naked three-year-old child near my hand, alone and lost, who demands my attention. For a long moment, I stare at my father as he stores away the whiskey and straightens his clothes. Daddy, I love you.
Donna stands next to me. She nudges my edge. I want my daddy, too.
ALTHOUGH THE LATE OCTOBER NIGHT was cool, Chloe and Amy didn’t have their drinks in the warm and ornate lounge at The Columns on St. Charles Avenue. They seemed to like the privacy that the chill allowed them in the small alley on the side of the old mansion. Chloe snuggled into the shoulders of her pea coat. She pulled a lapel to the side, ripped a sticky conference name tag from her shirt, and rolled the paper into a cylinder. Amy zipped her jacket to her sternum. At a round table under half-bare tree limbs, Chloe entertained her friend with stories of three recent bad dates and one promising fellow she’d met at work and lunched with, alone, on several occasions.
“He’s the first guy I’ve met in a long time who makes me lightheaded when he smiles.” Chloe gnawed the end of a plastic olive skewer. “My hormones must need balancing. It’s ridiculous at my age.”
“Oh, enjoy it. It’s good for your circulation.”
“So are you going to tell me about your trip to Jersey? I’
ve been very well behaved by not asking. But you know I’m dying to find out.”
Amy sipped her merlot. “I took a late-night flight to Newark on that Friday, so I rented a car and stayed in a hotel near the airport. The next morning I drove out to his parents’ house. They were very kind, very welcoming.”
“Had you told them why you were going?”
“I talked to Brenda—you remember his mom—before I left town. I wasn’t sure they’d want to see me. As it turned out, they were apologetic that they hadn’t kept in touch after the accident. His mom said the family had such a hard time with Jem’s death that they couldn’t think of much else. Then she said, later, she didn’t want to interfere with how I had moved on.”
“Ironic. That might have made a difference.” Chloe reached for the other olive in her martini.
“Brenda said she’d dug out some of Jem’s old toys and pictures and other things if I wanted to see them. It was up to me. Whatever I needed. Then she and Doug offered to leave the house to give me privacy. That really surprised me, and I never would have asked, but that’s what I wanted. So she brought me upstairs to his old room. It’s a guest room now, but it had the same furniture, same double bed. I almost started to laugh because the couple of times I went to visit his folks with him, I slept in his older brother’s room, but I’d sneak over in the middle of the night to Jem. You know.”
“Aims, I had no idea you would dare such a thing.” Chloe laughed.
“He couldn’t believe it, either, but he didn’t send me out.”
“Of course not.”
“I did ask his mom to stay with me for a little while. There wasn’t much I could tell her about the accident, because I’ve never remembered much. I remember seeing the truck in the distance and telling Jem it seemed to be going too fast, and then the next thing I saw was my grandfather’s face when I woke up from the coma. Brenda told me about his funeral and how much they missed him, even still. Then they left me alone. I wandered the house and matched pictures of him in different rooms. That was strange for some reason. Sometimes the angle and perspective were just right, and I could hold the photo, line up a window or doorway or picture, and there he was.”
The Mercy of Thin Air Page 25
