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Into the Air
By
Monique Parker
“I’m lonely, Lei-Long,” said Henry Weisner, who was staying at the convalescent hospital while his hip healed. “Lonely for you.”
The young woman blushed, set a pitcher of ice water on the table next to a container of pills, and then kissed her fingers and placed them gingerly on the old man’s cheek.
She cleared her throat and said, “Hello Henry.”
“Prop my head up, would you?”
Lei-Long adjusted the metal railing and lowered the bed. She wrapped both arms around his upper torso, leaned him toward her for support, and placed a second pillow behind his head.
Lei-Long thought about how easy it would be to suffocate him with it, to take his breath into the next life. Her palms grew clammy as she tensed her fingers around the pillow, but let it slide down behind him, propping him up. She placed her hands on his cheeks and stared into his eyes as though looking into a crystal ball, and then, almost instantly, she pulled away.
“Ah—much better,” Henry sighed. “You got a boyfriend, Lei-Long?”
“How could you tell?” she said, her voice low.
“He’s a lucky man, that’s all I can say.”
“You should tell him that,” she said. Then added, as if an afterthought, “And how are you doing today?”
“Oh, boy,” he shook his head. “I sure wish I had a woman.”
“You’ve got me,” said Lei-Long.
Harry Weisner was a strange combination of charm and orneriness; he had been transferred from the general hospital two weeks earlier. Although she did not notice, Lei-Long was immediately affected by his moods, which seemed to change as quickly as the coastal fog in San Francisco. At times, he delighted in seeing her, his face crinkling into a smiling monkey, and he would recollect his favorite Jackie Gleason Show. Other times he was apathetic and complained bitterly about the food—it was either too hot or too cold or not cooked enough, and on several occasions, he insisted his meal was not prepared with real meat. He accused Don, the night shift orderly, of stealing his fingernail clippers even though Lei-Long later discovered them in the front pocket of his slacks, which were folded and stored in a locker across from his bed.
Henry beamed at Lei-Long, exposing pink fleshy gums. “What’s cooking, you have a hot date tonight?”
“I don’t know,” she said, folding the blanket, tucking him in. “Maybe.” Her slight frame leaned against the bed and several thick strands of black hair fell into her face. She brushed them behind her ear and took a deep breath.
“Get me some water, would you?”
“In a moment, Henry,” she said, turning away. “Let me check on Mr. Cabbish first.” Lei-Long observed the patient sleeping in the next bed, while Henry watched the television screen mounted in the upper right corner of the room.
“Tell him he ought to share the remote control once in a while,” Henry muttered. “I seen this program a million times.” He stared at the moving images, his mouth ajar. “He even alive?” Henry asked without taking his eyes off the TV.
“Shhh—asleep.”
Henry nodded. “He can’t hear. Lemme have the control, Magnum’s on.”
“Let’s take your pills, Henry.” Lei-Long lifted his head off the pillow and moved the little plastic cup towards his lips.
“Already took ‘em,” he said, picking at a dry scab on his head.
“Did you really?”
“No.” He closed his eyes and opened his mouth. She felt his warm breath on her hand. The edges of his lips trembled; it reminded her of a silent scream. There was a long moment of awkward silence, and then he opened his eyes and looked at Lei-Long. “You gonna give em to me?” She placed the pills on his tongue and carefully poured water until he pushed the cup away with his chin. “Swallow, Henry.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Not sure. He’s probably at the office working on a story.” She sat down in the chair beside him, took his left hand and placed it between her palms. “Let’s talk about something else,” she said. Her hands were frail but pretty and on her left wrist she wore a small jade bracelet that looked like a handcuff. “That fracture of yours sure seems to be healing nicely,” she said.
Henry looked into her eyes and then glanced down at her hands encapsulating his. “You’re a doll, Lei-Long,” he said, “a real doll.”
They sat together for a few minutes watching television commercials. With his free hand, Henry produced a bright yellow package of chewing gum from underneath the blanket. “Piece of gum?”
“Thanks, Henry,” she said, releasing his hand. She slid the yellow cover off, removed the silver wrapper, and extended a piece to Henry.
“Oh, no, none for me,” he said, smiling and spreading his gums like a chimpanzee. “No teeth.”
She folded the slice into thirds and stuck it in her mouth. “You’re the boss, Henry.”
“It’ll keep you from chewing those nails,” he said.
She lowered her eyes and caught a glimpse of her hands. The ends of her fingers were bright salmon, tender and raw. When she looked at them it brought up images of self-mutilation that she had seen in a film during nursing school. Immediately, she crossed her arms and slid her hands inside her arm pits.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I used to chew my nails too.”
“You did?”
Henry nodded. “That’s why I got no teeth.”
They were silent for a moment; then they laughed. Lei-Long’s posture eased. She uncrossed her arms and tucked her hands securely between the chair and her buttocks. “Want to move in with me?” Henry asked.
“What, and make my boyfriend jealous?” She thought about Tate and wondered why he had not returned her email and phone calls. Her belly contracted and suddenly she began to feel uptight and anxious. She tried her best to hide her discomfort.
“Sure!” said the old man. “You don’t even know where he is right now. I’ll take care of you.”
Lei-Long rubbed the back of her neck, but it did no use, the muscles were already knotted and stiff. “You’d probably do a better job,” she said somberly and stood, straightening her nurse’s uniform. She patted the top of his hand, which was cold, and turned to leave the room. Henry pointed the remote control at the television set. “Take care,” she said, but he was no longer paying attention.
***
Tate sat in a pool of desks and ringing telephones proofreading a news story that had to be out on the wire by noon. He was logged onto the Internet so that he could study the profiles of the 2,137 Chinese American women registered on the personals web site to which he belonged. With 109 looking for a Caucasian guy and another 957 race-indifferent, he decided he would have ample romantic opportunities to fall back on if things didn’t work out with Lei-Long. According to his two-week dating rule, he had nine hours left to make a decision. Already there were violations: On the first date, she ascribed to him a silly nickname. By the third date, she attempted to spoon feed him at a swanky restaurant in the Marina. She came by his house in the middle of the night unannounced. Now she was calling him four times a day. He could feel the clock ticking. It didn’t look like Lei-Long would make the cut.
For a Monday it was unusually quiet, but Tate made good use of his time. As soon as he finished proofreading, he began to bookmark petite girls with long hair. He added notes if they listened to folk music or acid jazz. He picked lint off his crew neck sweater. Ate a chicken sandwich that he had grilled the previous night. Whistled a St. Germane tune while he rummaged through his bottom desk drawer for his gym shorts, high tops, and his lucky red bandana—the one he wore during a pickup game in the park one Saturday afternoon with Larry Bird.
In the locker room, he changed out of his street clothes and wedged a string of waxed dental floss between each tooth, making a dull snap that spewed saliva into the air. He took a swig of mouthwash and, rearranging the contents in his boxers with his left hand, he swished, bent over and spit into the sink. Then he neatly folded his bandana from opposite corners, and held it against his forehead, tying it taut against the back of his scalp. Outside, he trotted toward the other players who had already assembled on the asphalt court in the corner of the parking lot behind the building, and with a familiar nod, the game began.
“Hey,” he said, spreading his fingers like a starfish. The orange orb rocketed through the air and into his hands like a magnet.
“What’s up, Tate.” said Eric. “Any news?”
“Dead,” said Tate, jogging toward the other end of the court. “It’s fucking dead.”
“I got a story on ringworms and pit bulls I can assign you.”
“Nah…”
“What, nobody jumping out of buildings today?”
“I got no complaints—except women.” Tate scooped low and took a long shot from the center line. He watched the ball sink slowly through the hoop.
“Speaking of women,” said Eric. “I heard you double dated with Richard and Maggie this weekend.”
“You seeing a new Chinese girl?” asked Bruce. Tate nodded, reluctantly.
“So what’s this one’s name?”
“Lei-Long,” said Tate, “and she’s Chinese American.”
“Right!”
“You tie her up yet, like the last one?” asked Bruce.
“Remind me not to associate with you guys.”
“So what does she look like?”
“What do most Chinese girls look like?” said Eric.
“Chinese American,” corrected Tate. “She’s attractive—a nurse.”
“You know what they say about nurses,” said Bruce. “If she aint a dyke now, she will be.”
“That’s bullshit,” Tate said, grimacing.
“So what did Richard and Maggie have to say about her?”
“Richard said cute, but clingy. Said she was hanging all over Tate. Every time he tried to talk to Richard or Maggie, she would interrupt.”
Eric grinned, pretending to throw the ball, but instead, let it roll backwards off his fingers. He caught it and held it against his right hip. He continued, “So Richard gets frustrated and asks Lei-Long if she’s heard about the rubber shortage.”
“Condoms?” asked Bruce, scratching his crotch.
“No, natural resource,” said Eric. “So get this, Lei-Long says, ‘I didn’t know we were running out of rubber.’ And Richard says, ‘You didn’t?’ and she goes, ‘No—where does it come from?’ So Richard tells her it’s mined in South Africa and she believes him. “And then—,” Eric says in a high pitched voice, “—she says, ‘How will they make tires then?’”
“You’re brutal,” Tate said, “Fucking brutal.”
“That’s not all,” Eric continued, tossing the ball to Bruce. “She already has a nickname for him.” “You’re kidding?”
“Taters—she calls him Taters. Richard says Maggie damned near choked on her filet.”
“Taters?” said Bruce, wiping the sweat from his brow with his t-shirt. “Seriously, man, you dig this chick?”
“I don’t know—it’s a little weird,” said Tate, hesitantly. “If I don’t respond to her email, she calls my cell phone looking for me.”
“Shit, man,” said Bruce, “it’s only been two weeks. That’s a bad
sign.”
“Tell me about it,” said Tate, “What do I do?”
“Straight up,” said Eric, “you’ve got to tell her straight up—it’s not serious.”
“Done that, didn’t work.”
“What happened?”
“Came by my house the other night and cried for an hour.”
“Fuck that shit, man. What happened to the two week rule? Break it off.”
Tate look disconcerted. “I tried. She said she’d kill herself if I stopped seeing her.” He threw the ball at Eric who stood at the end of the court. The ball hit him in the chest and bounced away. Nobody moved; they all stared at Tate.
“What are you going to do?” asked Bruce.
“I don’t know.”
“You seeing her tonight?”
“I don’t know,” said Tate, “Probably not.” He stood there for a long moment, hands on his hips, head hung low, looking at the asphalt.
***
After Lei-Long had made the last rounds, leaving trays of potato salad, tuna casserole and Jell-O for patients, she logged onto the computer from the nurse’s station, which had Internet access for retrieving files from admitting hospitals. Her jade bracelet jingled against the keyboard. She bit off what was left of a nail on her index finger while she waited for her account to connect. Feeling uneasy, she started to bite the other nails too. When she found no mail, she began to tremble. She noticed her hands first, then her legs, and when she found that she couldn’t stop, she began to tug at the jade bracelet, scraping the skin on her wrist as she struggled to remove it. The flesh swelled and turned a deep radish color. Lei-Long bent over and rested her head on the desk. Her body felt heavy, lethargic. Down the hall, the sound of a wheelchair labored towards the elevator.
She lingered there for a long moment in what felt like defeat. Although she hadn’t known Tate for more than a couple of weeks, he had already told her he loved her. And she believed him. When they made love, he stared into her eyes and whispered sweet sentiments. Then he would hold her tenderly, close to his chest and it would feel as though he had waited his whole life to be with her. Now, suddenly, he wouldn’t return her calls.
Lei-Long reached inside the bottom desk drawer to retrieve her purse and fumbled through its contents until she found her cell phone. She hastily checked her voice mail, and when she found no messages, she called the service provider to inquire if her phone was working properly. Although the voice on the other end claimed it was, she insisted the ringer on her phone was broken. Hastily, she punched her time card and put on a fashionable leather jacket over her uniform.
On her way out of the building, she used the telephone at the admitting station to call her answering machine at home. There were no messages there either. She exited through the automatic double doors and walked to the bus stop at the end of the block. She didn’t feel like going home. She wanted the lights of the city to rush by her. She wanted to go numb.
After twenty minutes, a man in tidy business suit got on the bus and sat next to her. His short cropped hair reminded Lei-Long of Tate.
“What, you’ve never seen anyone who chews their nails?” she said as the bus lurched forward.
“Excuse me?” said the man.
“You were looking at my nails.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, miss,” he said and looked at the road ahead.
“If you think I’m a bad person because I chew my nails, then just say so,” said Lei-Long. “But don’t lie to me about it.”
“Excuse me,” said the man abruptly. He stood and moved to an empty seat in the rear of the bus.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she whispered to her reflection in the window. “Nothing wrong.” The bus stopped to pick up passengers, and although she was still miles from home, Lei-Long got off and walked.
She recognized the scenic overlook, remembered visiting it when she first moved to the city. She walked along the stream of bustling traffic, headlights flashing past. The air smelled of ocean, and in the distance she could hear the deep baritone call of a fog horn.
She walked for nearly a mile, to the center of the bridge, leaned over the hand rail, and glanced at the twinkling lights across the bay. A gust of wind chilled her and blew her hair so that it drifted like wings. On her wrist, the jade bracelet chimed against the steel rail, hollow and foreign, but she could not hear it. She tried to despise Tate. She wanted to hate all the men who had ever claimed to have loved her and who never did. But all she could feel was numbness. She imaged climbing up over the railing and diving, head first, into the air. Instead, she looked down at the water far below, a pool of crashing darkness, and vowed never to love again.
Copyright © 2007 Monique Parker
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