The Mercy of Thin Air

by Ronlyn Domingue

  “Weird,” Chloe said.

  “Then I had a late lunch. His dad had cooked and left a smorgasbord for me to pick through. A couple of amazing pasta salads.”

  “Jem used to make that exotic one with sun-dried tomatoes. Remember?”

  “His dad’s recipe. Doug had made some, but I couldn’t eat much of it. Jem’s tasted exactly the same. I couldn’t swallow. I didn’t expect food to make me cry.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “For the rest of the day, I watched a stack of videotapes his mom had left in his room. Some were old Super 8s that had been transferred. No sound.” Amy paused, a hesitation more than a break. “You know what’s creepy?”

  “What?”

  “The . . . our . . . baby, as I’ve imagined him growing up . . . It’s Jem.”

  “Well, of course. You’d seen baby pictures of him before, right?”

  “Never film. Jem moved fast when he was little. Turned corners with military pivots. He didn’t do that as an adult.”

  “So?”

  “It’s just strange,” Amy said.

  “And the rest of your visit?”

  “I had planned to go back to the hotel to eat that evening, but they asked me to stay for dinner. I accepted to be polite—I thought it might get to be too much, I didn’t want to lose it in front of them—but everything worked out all right. We shared stories about Jem and talked about ourselves while his dad cooked a fabulous meal. We laughed, more than I expected. No one broke down until later. Doug had started to stack the dishes, and he looked at me and started crying and said he hoped Jem had known how much I loved him.”

  “Amy . . .”

  “We all were a mess for a while after that,” she said, her voice small. “They invited me to stay there for the night, but I didn’t. They had been so gracious and open and understanding, but I needed to go. The next morning, I went to his grave site. That little Episcopalian church, it’s so peaceful there. The landscape reminded me of the part of Tennessee where he would have gone to graduate school, all those trees and hills and green. I realized he’d chosen a place that was much like his home. I sat on the ground next to his plot for a good two hours, just talking. Aloud. I felt like a freak, but it seemed right. It made the experience real. Once I was done, I couldn’t believe how different I felt. Relieved. Truthful. And I didn’t know if I could do it—would do it—but I brought the engagement ring with me.”

  “You of all people wouldn’t get rid of such a thing.”

  Amy leaned back and took a small sip. She looked up into the sky faintly dotted with stars. “There’s a lot I never got rid of. When I healed enough to move around after the accident, I went through everything, but all I did was box it up again. I had the ring stored in the attic for a long time. I decided that it wasn’t necessary to keep it any longer. His gravestone is flat, with one of those flower holders on top, so I dropped it inside. I felt better knowing he had it back. I didn’t want some stranger to have it. Its history is too sad.”

  “You’re wrong. Only the ending breaks your heart.”

  “You know, sometimes you know just what to say.”

  “I’m goddamn brilliant. I’m really proud of you, Aims. Sincerely. Jem would be proud, too. But he always knew you were more of a scrapper than you looked,” Chloe said. “How are things between you guys?”

  Amy sighed. “We’re still in separate rooms, but we’re trying. I’m trying. I’ve been thinking about my grandma a lot. How she must have been with her first husband. I mean, you can see clearly in pictures that something was special between them. It wasn’t because of the war.” She finished her wine. “I know she was devoted to Poppa, but her love seemed practical. I saw it and didn’t think about it. And that’s how I’ve been with Scott. I didn’t realize it. And you know, I don’t think Jem would want it that way, for my sake—and Scott’s. Through all of this, I figured out that I love Scott and he deserves more than I’ve given him. He’s given me no reason and no excuse to hold out.”

  “As bad as he’s hurt, he still loves you. He’s a rare specimen, and he loves you as if he has no other choice. He made a promise before you, me, everybody, and God. For better or worse. It will get better. Much better.”

  “I never thought of you as a romantic.”

  “Shh, don’t tell.”

  “The truth is out now. That must be what motivated you to put that picture of me and Scott in the dictionary,” Amy said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you came this summer. When we were at critical mass. You went through our picture boxes, right? Didn’t you take one out and move it?” Amy looked like she needed another drink. “It’s what made me tell him. Finding it was the turning point.”

  Chloe sucked the pimento core out of her last olive. “Why would I do something like that? It’s not my style. Subtle, I am not. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

  ON AMY’S last night in New Orleans, as she and her dearest friend slept in double beds in the same downtown hotel room, I rushed through the city where I was born. With the speed of a runner, I traveled across the chaotic commercial nightmare that was now Canal Street, through the restored splendor of the French Quarter, into the still-standing places where speakeasies once lured the intemperate, along the river tamed against its desire to change course, and among the streets of Uptown, where I had grown.

  I stopped in front of my family’s home. The key-shaped porch, square across the entrance and round on the opposite side, had been stripped and painted recently. As I moved up each step, the beautiful and terrible flood of memory returned, the one that churned me as I sped through the city I loved. Through each room—front parlor, Daddy’s study, my room—I experienced every moment again, my life in layers of time, a baby, a child, a woman. To pause and linger would have intensified the onslaught, torn me apart.

  The rush didn’t stop as I moved out and away, south, toward Audubon Park, where I had climbed a tree and wished for something I thought I wanted and received much more in return, where I slipped Andrew kisses, where the seesaw that balanced Twolly and me had long since disappeared—

  East toward Tulane University, where my sex was never an obstacle because I refused to let it be, where I was an A student and at the top of my class and the one who was sure to make it, by golly, where I kissed Andrew behind the largest oak on campus—

  Farther east, to a Victorian house painted in its original glory, the way it was before a banker and his wife bought it, where they bore an only son, where he grew into a man who was brilliant and gentle and handsome, where I died moments before he could hear what I came to tell him—

  Then finally, southeast, toward the Lower Garden District, where a Confederate lady strode in a ceaseless orbit around the home she had saved from Yankees and protected from invaders—

  “Eugenia.”

  “Raziela, so good to see you. It’s been seven months, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not so long a time, to us anyway.” Eugenia stopped to kiss the air near my cheek and continued her walk. “How do you like your new home?”

  I struggled to answer. My thoughts were caught in the memory of the afternoon I told Eugenia I wanted to touch him and how she had merely sniffed at the ramifications of such desire. “Oh, it’s very quiet there. A nice little neighborhood. The couple is darling.”

  “Are you training there?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you here, Raziela?” Her tone lacked curiosity and hinted at insight.

  “Amy—that’s the young woman’s name—came to New Orleans to meet a friend. I followed.”

  “Why?”

  I could have drifted the miles to visit her at any time during the months I’d been away. I could have skipped this wee-hour conversation, and she would have never known I was in the city. Why had I come? I glanced at her old home. Its owners had hung a paper skeleton on the door. Halloween . . . Andrew’s birthday.

  Euge
nia cut her eyes to me. “You look different.” She flounced the skirt of her dress away from the ground. A dead bee rose airborne for a moment, then fell back into the grass. “You’re glowing.”

  “I am? I am.” I remembered Nel’s peculiar luminance the weeks before he left—and realized what was happening.

  “What has occurred since I last saw you?”

  “I can’t stop thinking of Andrew.”

  “Oh, sugarplum,” she said with the sweet empathy of a good mother.

  MRS. O’CONNELL sips her water and cranes ever so slightly to glance left. Her pewter bun holds every strand of thick hair away from her high forehead and cheeks. The crystal glass and her diamond ring absorb the glow from the chandelier. After she wipes her mouth with the linen napkin, she pivots right. The narrow cross on her sternum doesn’t move. Her chin bobs in genteel recognition. Mr. O’Connell nods, but he smiles in greeting. Black wavy fringe circles his head like a low-set crown. His coal eyes consume his pupils, reflective light fractures on each edge.

  “Andrew,” his mother says, “the Hemphills are here, but Corrine isn’t with them. Such a lovely girl. When did you last see her?”

  He turns to his left, raises his hand. “Months ago. She might be married by now.”

  “Oh, certainly not. We would know.”

  “Razi, congratulations,” Mr. O’Connell says. “Andrew said you were accepted at Northwestern.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s not too late to change your mind about another school,” he says.

  There have been conversations about me between Andrew and his father that I wish had never occurred. Ones I did not sanction. “I appreciate Northwestern’s history of admitting women. Such tradition is important.”

  “How were your grades at the time you applied to schools?”

  “I competed well.”

  “She’ll graduate magna cum laude,” Andrew says. “A chance at valedictorian?”

  “I’d never have any fun if I studied that hard.”

  Mr. O’Connell laughs. “Yes, enjoy your youth. When you look back on the years, you’ll want to remember the frolic, not the drudgery. When I was at Yale, some of us fellows staged races with those high-wheel bicycles to impress the young ladies.” He leans into the table and exposes his wattle. “Look at this scar. I nearly decapitated myself from a fall. The blood was terrible. Ghastly. A lady and two of my friends fainted.”

  “So they lost their heads,” I say.

  “Ha! Yes, very good.” Mr. O’Connell raises his glass to me and drinks half.

  “Mrs. O’Connell,” I say, “Andrew mentioned that you are leading an effort to raise money for your charity. What a rewarding endeavor.”

  “Why, yes. The orphanage is in such a state. The ceiling leaks, half of the windows don’t open—can you imagine the diseases trapped inside?—and I won’t begin to mention how many children sleep in each room. Abominable. The poor sisters do what they can, but without an appeal to the parish, well, circumstances would only worsen.”

  “Are there plans to renovate the building or relocate?”

  “Renovate. We’ve almost secured a temporary home. An unrelated but pressing issue is their food, however. They all look malnourished. When a group of us visited the home, we saw hundreds of cans of food. I never fed Andrew such things. Children need their fresh fruit and vegetables.”

  “One of our family friends might be interested to help. Mr. Richard Delacourt.”

  “Delacourt. Why do I know that name?” Mrs. O’Connell drinks her water.

  Andrew nudges me under the table. I slice my eyes toward him. His lips turn under until they disappear like a monkey’s. He knows what has happened to Gertrude of late—and how precarious the situation is for me. Gertrude’s pamphlets have been intercepted a second time. The rumors have already started to spread. I was questioned once, briefly, and based on Andrew’s advice, answered as literally as possible. I volunteered nothing and told the truth: yes, I knew that there were certain materials in Newcomb’s library; yes, I had told other girls, and no, I had no idea how long they had been there—could have been a few months, maybe more.

  “Oh, yes, Delacourt. He has an import business.” Mr. O’Connell flicks his nail against the rim of his empty glass.

  “Yes, sir. Oranges and bananas, primarily,” I say.

  “No, there is another reason,” Mrs. O’Connell says.

  “What could he do for the children, Razi?” Andrew asks.

  “Delacourt. She was involved with suffrage. Yes, I believe that’s right.”

  “Mother, what does it matter if it’s for your cause?” Andrew says.

  “Do you know, Raziela, if Mrs. Delacourt was so affiliated?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She was.”

  “Indeed. I myself was opposed to the whole idea. I did go to one meeting. There was a moving picture of a man who drank and beat his wife and children. Some of the ladies cried. Then a woman dressed in some costume came onstage and said that all such things would end once women got their freedom. Ridiculous. Some men are worse than others, but all men are as they are. No vote will change that.”

  “Good men serve as good examples,” I say.

  “Yes, yes. This Mrs. Delacourt, I’m not finished with her. Wasn’t her name in the papers recently?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Something about a raid. Lewd paraphernalia.”

  “Perhaps you’ve fallen prey to gossip, Mother.” Andrew’s gaze is fixed on me. I can read his mind: Keep quiet.

  “No, ma’am, there was no such thing in the papers.” I am telling the truth. No printed article has appeared, although one could at any time. There’s something more insidious and interesting about boxes of feminine sanitary supplies filled with birth control devices and pamphlets than that liquid that titillates this city’s prurient appetite.

  “I was certain I had read an account,” Mrs. O’Connell replies.

  “About the orphans,” I say. “Mr. Delacourt is a generous man. He would do this favor.”

  For a long moment, Mrs. O’Connell studies my neutral expression. The only thing we have in common is that we both love Andrew, and she tolerates the fact only because she expects to soon be rid of me, even though she disapproves of the reason why I’ll be leaving. “Then thank you, Raziela. Could you arrange an introduction?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I believe it’s each person’s duty to help someone in need, even if the gesture is small.”

  “How true. Oh, look, the first course has arrived. Raziela, have you dined at Antoine’s before? The food here is simply a delight.” She leans toward her husband. “Mr. O’Connell.” She does not call him Patrick, in public, if ever. “Dear, please put your napkin on your lap.”

  “PEPIN.”

  “No. Turn your face a little to the right. Pull your shoulders down. Hold.” Click.

  “I know parts of you your own mother hasn’t seen for fifteen years, but you still won’t tell me. Why do you use it in your initials, then?”

  “I have no objection to the consonant itself.”

  “This isn’t as fun as it used to be.” I pause. “Percival.”

  “No.”

  “Pericles.”

  “That’s all for today.” He places his camera in its case. I look at him through a verdant cascade of willow branches. “Take a nap with me.”

  Andrew removes his shirt and stretches flat on the ground. He knows how much I like to sleep against his bare skin. I press the side of my face into his sternum and smooth the hair on his chest. His fingertips curl into my left upper arm. I am about to drowse. . . .

  HE DIDN’T KNOW she was watching him from the dark bathroom.

  Scott sat cross-legged on the bed with the puzzle. There were fewer than fifteen pieces left to place. He caught one between his thumb and middle finger, held it above the image, and moved it in a languid zigzag, looking for its home. He twitched his left eye as the part snapped into its notch. Quietly, he mimicked the roar of a
crowd. Amy palmed her mouth to stop a giggle. Neither noticed the strange little shadows moving across the floor.

  The next few clicked into place with ease. Without looking, he swept his hand against the coverlet to grasp the last three. He found no more. Dammit, he muttered, and slid off the bed. He searched the top of the duvet, under the puzzle board, and beneath the pillows, then crawled across the wood floor like a greyhound.

  Amy stood in the doorway. “Lost something?”

  “The last three pieces. They’re here. I counted all the pieces before I started, like I always do.”

  She dropped to the ground and helped him. After they had both covered the entire floor, he checked the box itself. Amy suggested that the pieces might have been caught under the blanket. They took everything off the bed except the bottom sheet and shook it out. Scott frowned and crossed his arms.

  “They’ll turn up. They always do,” Amy said.

  He glanced at her, then scanned the floor again. “I was so close to being done.”

  A muted plop made him turn his head. There, near Amy’s left ankle, was one of the missing pieces. “Open your hands.”

  She held her palms wide in front of him as she looked down.

  As he reached toward her, another fell. Scott sat on his heels, inspected Amy’s hip, and shook the hem of her robe. Three marbles dropped and rolled across the floor. The last puzzle piece landed in his hand.

  “Scott, really, I haven’t—” She touched the pocket. Her finger disappeared into a hole, then wrapped around a loose thread. She pulled, and the pocket hinged open. Amy parted her lips to speak, but the words had vanished.

  He rattled the pieces like dice. “Well, well, perhaps a little mouse is responsible.” Scott kneeled at the board to finish his work. “It’s not nice to tease people.”