The Mercy of Thin Air

by Ronlyn Domingue

  I feel nothing. He is resistance and pressure. My pleasure is memory alone. Somehow, I have learned to create an elementary solid form, aware that my density is a knit of energy, not matter, not as I had known it.

  For him, the sensation is real. Whatever I am, I am here, invisible.

  Andrew clutches me—vibration and energy—as he is guided into place. His muscles urge the pace to quicken, but he is overwhelmed, overpowered. Sudden rain batters the roof. Wind blows each curtain horizontal. The thunder is felt as much as it is heard. Razi, he says, his voice suffocated.

  Hands pinned near his shoulders, spine rolling against rumpled sheets, Andrew opens his eyes. He searches for a return of his gaze, but the darkness prevents such focus. The tension against his thighs relaxes, and he welcomes the freedom. He tilts into the urgency, lifts into its demand, pulls into its release. He closes his eyes again. When the final exhale escapes his body, Andrew sinks into the mattress.

  He smiles as his lashes part.

  The room incandesces for a second.

  He touches his groin, finds moisture without temperature.

  Andrew swings his legs to the floor and curls his torso toward his knees. He looks around the room. A choking cry works from the depths of his lungs. He throws a pillow at his desk opposite the bed. Release me, he says, his voice plaintive, pleading. Let me go. Please.

  The storm stalls above us. The thunder is furious, but it can roar no louder than the fierce visceral desire denied me—the part that made me whole—the piece I wanted to reclaim through the fusion of his body with what remains of mine. I know how fragile I am now, nothing but a whisper, a breath away from oblivion like the little girls whose release I beheld tonight.

  Andrew gets up and creeps through the room. He grabs a cigarette from its case and fumbles for a match. He pauses at the mirror above his gentleman’s chest, unable to make out his own features. I hear him breathe in short, stunted bursts. He walks toward the bookcase where he keeps extra matches in the left drawer.

  The cigarette dangles at the edge of his lip. He has not stopped crying. Andrew opens the drawer and finds a matchbox. He stands, strikes the flame, and brings it near his mouth. A bolt strikes within yards of the room. Light crosses itself hundreds of times in reflection, in an instant, back and forth between the mirror and the bookcase doors.

  Andrew lets the cigarette fall. The match snuffs out on its way to the floor. I follow his gaze to the point where it ends, near the center of the room where I am, where the darkness should reveal nothing but his imagination. I peer down, look through the layers I have constructed, and realize what he sees.

  A white mass suspends in the space where my vagina would be—then disappears.

  He is within me.

  I move toward Andrew as the lightning pulses, dim and almost distant now. After what has happened, he stands before me bewildered, yet his body is unharmed. I am left with a want that cannot be sated, but the look in his eyes is what I can’t bear. Instinct draws me to him, my hands toward his chest. Before I touch him, I can hear the hum of his blood and feel its current, lulling me . . . lulling me.

  My form meets his bare flesh at the sternum, and a gust presses through his skin. His heart misses a beat—another—his blue eyes close—he falls against the bookcase with a jolt—glass shatters to the floor—and the night comes back to me—the séance—Donna—her palm on my father’s heart—she almost stopped it, didn’t she?—the orphan—Donna’s hand—a final breath?—the thin silver horizon. Do not touch, this is why, don’t you see, this is why the heart beats—

  My hands hover above his chest. There are flutters, dim waves of movement, deep within his atria and ventricles. His pulse is silent. One more touch—that is all—he would feel no pain, he would see the black blink and feel the light lift, he would surrender—one more touch—with him, in him, through him, we would release into a vapor pure as our love—

  In an instant, my hands resist the deed. I nudge the air with the curves of my fingertips, and a rush of energy spreads from the edges. An electric snap sends a tremor through his body. Pump, I say. Let the current flow again. Breathe, Andrew, breathe.

  He gasps. His eyes open. For weeks, the flawless blue has been draining away. Now, in each iris, a slice of blue is entirely missing. A crescent of white takes its place. When I shift from left to right, the color does not return. After many deep breaths, he sits up and lifts his right arm. Blood trickles down his skin and into the open drawer at his elbow. He crawls toward his desk lamp and squints against the glare when he turns it on.

  Without a flinch, he tugs a glass triangle from the meat of his palm under his little finger. The blood rushes forward from the straight, clean cut. Somehow, he pulls himself up and leans against the desk. A red puddle seeps into the envelope left on the blotter, into the last letter I will ever write him, the one he accepted from my father’s hand earlier tonight. Andrew takes the shirt he’d worn that day and twists it around his fist. Blood spreads into the fine tight white fabric. As I reach to hold the part that bleeds—I can’t bear to see him hurt—I realize the truth.

  I am powerless to stanch the damage I’ve done, so afraid that a part of Andrew cannot be repaired.

  IN MY ROOM, in my bed, I reach to my side as if I expect to find more than the empty morning heat of mid-June. I am alone.

  Hours before, I had fallen asleep on top of him, his left arm cradling my side, his right hand stroking my cheek and neck. My rest was deep then, so much that I didn’t dream and I didn’t notice that he’d left me. Andrew nudged me conscious close to two in the morning and drove me home. He walked me to the door. When I kissed him, I knew in my gut and bones what I had to do, what assurance I could give him.

  That day, I meet with one of Twolly’s former classmates and place an order. Most of the money Daddy gave me for new school outfits is gone—well spent, an investment.

  Three weeks later, I pick up the ring. The beautiful silver band is inlaid with a thick stripe of lapis lazuli, exactly what I asked for. Inside, the inscription is flawless. I wait for the panic, and when I don’t feel it, I am relieved. The gesture was not made on impulse.

  Each day we have seen each other has been a tense increment of good-bye. We talk about Christmas, timing our arrivals and departures five and a half months away. We float in the pool like aimless starfish, toes and fingers changing the trajectory of the other’s drift. Alone as much as possible, in unbearable heat, we embrace for no other reason than to hold on. He hasn’t asked me to marry him again. He doesn’t offer to withdraw his acceptance to Yale and join me in Chicago, nor does he do it outright. He doesn’t ask me why I won’t reconsider my decision and follow him to New Haven.

  Tucked into the mirror of my vanity is a tiny calendar. Underneath, my acceptance letter from Northwestern. On the bottom of the paper, handwritten, is the time and date of my train departure. I leave in eight weeks.

  I look at the clutter in front of me and begin to pack Twolly’s surprise package. She moved back to Shreveport after graduation. I miss her like crazy and want her to know. Inside, I place a crossword puzzle book, a pretty scarf, some pictures Andrew had taken at graduation, fifteen sticks of Roman candy, a tabloid with my comments in the margins, and a yo-yo. I realize that I’ve forgotten to buy some Barq’s Root Beer, her favorite, and don’t seal the box.

  I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time. Against my sternum, I hold the locket Andrew gave me our first Valentine’s Day. I open it to read the words inside. When I glance right, he watches me from a photograph. Twolly took it, but I stood behind her and winked. In the instant between the moment I called his name and the shutter closed, Andrew unearthed a subtle grin, squinted against flares in his irises, and drew me along the rhumb line connecting our distance. We had not touched, but my body, below and beyond, felt encircled by his pull.

  I love him.

  The blank stationery lies flat between Twolly’s parcel and Andrew’s ring. With my best fountain pen, I
write,

  Wednesday, July 10, 1929

  Andrew, my darling,

  My love for you is a force of nature.

  I know, such words from a woman who holds faith in nothing but what her senses reveal. But I have proof, you see. I cannot doubt the rush under my skin when you turn those unfathomable blue eyes my way, the velocity of my blood when I am naked against your body, and the ebb and flow of my breath when you whisper my name.

  You asked me a question, and I have your answer now. Just for a moment, close those eyes I adore, Andrew, then hold out your hand for me.

  Always, always, your Razi

  When I seal the envelope, I kiss it. There is no imprint, I haven’t put on lipstick, so I draw a tiny rosebud mouth at the flap’s corner. On the front, I write his name in my best script. For the hundredth time, I take the ring from its box and turn it in the light. The inscription is his answer, but I know, so that he will believe me, I will have to speak it aloud.

  Mother calls me from the landing. Breakfast. I close the little jewelry box, shove it against Twolly’s package, and stand Andrew’s note against the mirror. I kiss Grams, Mother, and Daddy good morning. My father remarks that I am in a cheery mood, a change from the last few weeks, in which I’ve been unusually quiet. Why shouldn’t I be happy on such a gorgeous summer day? I answer. I eat quickly and tell them I’m going to walk to Andrew’s. Mother tells me to invite him to dinner. With his parents gone, she says, he must be lonesome in the house.

  I walk the tree-shaded blocks in my favorite green sleeveless dress. The heat makes me dewy. I hope my extra swimsuit is at his house because I terribly want a dip. If not, perhaps I should go bare. The O’Connells are in the Swiss Alps avoiding mosquitoes and tropical heat, and Emmaline will be away shopping until it’s time to cook lunch.

  My pace quickens. Along St. Charles Avenue, I grin at a college boy who offers a ride in his coupe. His F. Scott hair weeps into his neck from the humidity. He looks familiar, someone who’s cut in on me at a dance or two.

  “Thanks,” I reply, “but I’m limbering up for a swim.”

  “Mind if I join you?” he says.

  “Not today, sport.”

  As he drives away, I stop in my tracks. Andrew’s surprise. The items are still on my dressing table. A sliver of grapefruit curls at the tip of my tongue. Go back home, brush my teeth—forgot to do that, too—sneak it out in a little bag. No one will notice, no one will know.

  I can’t do this. He’s going to want to before we leave. I know him, that decisiveness. A small ceremony, sure, no time for a big event—he knows I wouldn’t want that. If we do, it will play on us every day we’re apart. That bond on paper and all it implies, stronger than steel. I can’t. My plans have been made. Made for years. I can hold the ring until later, keep it safe. It’s not time, not yet.

  No.

  But I’m not saying I’ll do it now. I express intent, a promise. He’s a reasonable man. He’ll understand. And he hasn’t mentioned it since that night. He would be surprised, a little amused perhaps. If I give it as a symbol, yes, a symbolic gesture—he would appreciate that. I’m meeting him halfway. I can do this.

  Maybe.

  Timing. I leave in eight weeks. Between now and then, I can decide. Yes.

  It can wait.

  ANDREW, my Andrew.

  Remember the night you pointed to the North Star and told me that when you were a child, you were afraid the creatures and objects would fall from the sky and crush you? You believed they were there among those constellation points, that if one of those lights went out, like a pin removed from a seam, the weight would tear the rest away and leave them at the mercy of thin air.

  You were right. We are.

  The day my friend Lionel left, we went to Jackson Square. Cart mules chewed their oats, fortune-tellers spoke of futures and pasts, tourists marveled at the sights, thieves lay in wait, a brass quartet played, and the locals ignored it all. Nel was happy, content. He had chosen to go beyond alone, the way it had been the first time, almost. No deathbed wait to follow a stranger’s last breath. I was unsure whether this would work, if there was a chemistry involved in the release. Nel told me good-bye, as if he were going home after a friendly visit, and drifted into the crowd. I followed his glow. His movement accelerated like a run, and when he shouted, Falling up! Nel leapt and disappeared. Completely.

  Not so long ago, Lionel found solace in the strangest theory. He said that in the instant two particles collide, an event occurs, a decision is made—what did not happen, in fact, did. The opposite result still exists. The alternative is in motion. We cannot experience the other option in a way that we understand, much less see. Unless, Nel thought, those moments are woven into our dreams, visits to what could have been, or what is. Or maybe, Nel said, we are allowed only glimpses of ourselves and our lives. What we know is a fraction of vastly scattered possibilities—the position and momentum of every instant in constant flux. We would be overwhelmed by knowing it all at once. Nel decided that if he existed in many different ways, in more dimensions than he could fathom, it didn’t matter. He was still Lionel. He was entirely connected in the end somehow, even if it was only memory.

  I wonder what would hold the possibilities together, like the bond of water, the tug of gravity, the force of nature. What would we call each whole and the variations created when they are broken, repaired, rearranged?

  And how, Andrew—how can I apologize for tearing you apart?

  When I didn’t turn back to get your ring, to promise a life with you, I had no idea I would miss the chance for good. I stalled that day because I believed in time, plenty to parcel out for the passions I held. You were one, Andrew. I feared that I would give you too much, not enough—my measure in the world based on those proportions I balanced. I sometimes thought, He is just a man. I forgot to admit I was just a woman.

  That last night I went to you, when the storm clouds stretched a black net wide enough to catch falling bodies, I longed for consummation. I wanted you and what was beyond that want, the experience when we breathed in rhythm and my desires lifted, suspended, drifted away. The moment I saw the fractures in your blue eyes, I knew my love had scarred the man you were meant to be. I admit it now. I should have left you to mourn me alone. I had no right to surround you with my own desperate grief or attempt to take away what your love gave to me—your very life.

  There was a word you spoke in the Latin masses of your boyhood—anima—and it translated into soul. That same word held new meaning for the scholar you became, its definitions dependent on usage and intent. Anima: soul, spirit, mind, breath, wind. Here, where I am, there is no consensus, no absolute, and no debate about which one, if any, is truly accurate. Like those of us between, like memory, words are images without substance—fluid, malleable, fundamental.

  But I can say it now, on my terms, free from connotations—I am a soul. What lifted above the pool that morning did not depend on oxygen for its life. I am a constellation now, too, Andrew—a configuration reduced to its essentials, spread far and wide like the atoms that once gave my body the illusion of density.

  I am still Razi, and I still love you. How absolutely possible I always have and always will.

  “AUNT TWOLLY, I have something very important to show you.” Amy slipped the DVD into the player. “It’s about Poppa.”

  Twolly sat up straight in her chair and adjusted her cheaters. She watched without a sound as our graduation day replayed before her eyes. “Where did that come from?”

  “It’s a long story. Do you remember someone named Simon Beeker? Or Emmaline? Think. And tell me the truth.”

  “I remember Emmaline.” Twolly exhaled in a long rasp.

  Amy removed the DVD and sat on the ottoman near her great-aunt. “I want to know who that man was. Before he became the grandfather I barely knew at all.”

  “I made him a promise.”

  Amy reached into her jacket pocket. She placed two items on Twolly’s lap—my last
letter to Andrew, and the ring. My dear old friend would not touch them.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Aunt Twolly? Who were you protecting—him or you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was there something between you two? Did something happen?”

  Twolly turned a fierce red. Her eye contact did not waver. “Never,” she said, her voice strong and strangely youthful. “I loved him like a brother. Always.”

  “You had the ring that his dead girlfriend—your friend—meant for him. Why?”

  “He wouldn’t take it.” Twolly pressed her lips together.

  “What? When?” Amy received no answer. “What happened to him?”

  Twolly sighed. With a rush of energy, she described the first time she saw Andrew again, more than ten years after I died. She hardly recognized the man whose eyes had turned an unusual blue-green, who had a law degree he never intended to use and a doctorate in the theories of thought and logic. Twolly believed it was just as well he had adopted the Oxford nickname for good. He was not the man she had known.

  After working several years as an adjunct professor, he visited her again. Sunny and her child were living with Twolly at the time. Sunny’s first husband had been killed in the war a year prior. Twolly explained that her baby sister knew Andrew and I had been an item once, but that she had been too young to hear the details after I died. By the time Sunny met Andrew, Twolly felt it was his right to tell about his past. She had promised her silence. It was a vow she kept with devotion and ambivalence.

  “Your grandfather loved your grandmother,” Twolly said. “But even I will admit it was the kind of love you have for someone because you’ll die inside if you don’t love something. When Razi died, he was broken. The rest of his life revolved around the moment he lost her.”

  Amy looked down and twisted the wedding ring on her finger. “Poppa never spoke of Razi?”