Tina Hal - The Physics of Imaginary Objects

In the medical park next door there is a Japanese garden in the atrium. Koi swim in a black plastic pond surrounded by philodendrons. She imagines herself on Mount Koya, the smell of cedar, the saffroned monks. Sick children have stolen the rocks from the Zen garden; people have put out their cigarettes in it. The plants are dusty and neglected, and the miniature trees have outgrown their shapes. In the corner is a lovely green-tiled fountain, topped by a perplexed Buddha. Mercy meditates to its plashing and the ding of the elevator. People file in coughing and file out rustling prescriptions and sample packets. Her favorite fish is the white one with pink blotches that flails out of the water periodically to ram the other fish as if angry with the world. She loves this forgotten garden, the surly fish, the elevator behind her grinding its vertical path, a string of chakras spinning, the way it flings its doors open each time it returns, even if nobody waits.

This is the year of volcano watches. The temperature below the surface surpasses the scientists' instruments. Jake comes home on the last day of the semester and announces he has quit his job in order to play Internet poker. Mercy says, “On the computer?” Jake looks at her as if she is an idiot. He says, “Last week, I made a $700 profit.” Mercy realizes her hatmaking business is now their primary support. It seems a flimsy thing on which to base a household. The homes in the path of the lava flow have been evacuated. On the news, an orderly procession of minivans and small SUVs winds down the highway into the valley. A hard perimeter has been established, so the cameras are using hyperzoom, which causes almost invisible pixilation. Jake explains the system of Internet poker tournaments and the philosophy of gambling as a career. He outlines cutoff points and timetables and gives her a chart of the odds. She learns if you are dealt a suited king and queen you have a 7 percent chance of winning the hand. Non-suited: 6 percent. Vulcanologists have set up a live video webcam near the dome to record activity and entertain the masses. Whenever a blast of ash is released, the website goes down due to too much traffic. The movement of the ash one hundred feet straight into the air is a matter of hearsay and snapshots.

She strokes her lipstick-pink, leather-covered hip and says, “Still fits.” She says to Mercy, “You are like the niece I never had.” She puts metallic bows in the dog's hair. Brenda owns a Quick Stop in Indianapolis and can only visit for a few days at a time and never on an actual holiday. She punches Jake hard in the chest when he tells her about quitting his job and says, “All those student loans.” Mercy thaws the turkey in the sink. They mouth Christmas carols while driving around counting blow-up Santas. Brenda says, “I like those icicle lights — looks like the house is making an effort.” She works all day to paint “Joy to the World” in frosted letters on the front windows. At night, Mercy and Jake whisper in the guest room so his mother can have the firm mattress. Brenda finds the ovulation calendar with its Xs and Os in the bathroom drawer and cries. She says, “Why didn't you tell me you were trying?” She says, “All my life has been a disappointment.” On the day of the premature dinner, five inches of snow fall. A potato in the bag in the pantry has gone rotten and bled white sap over everything. Whenever Mercy goes out to the porch where Brenda stands in the cold, smoking, to ask for her opinion or help, Brenda says, “You do it. I'm sure you know best.”

On Christmas Day, the sand burns the soles of their feet as they take turns walking up the beach to the fancy hotel for beers for Jake and virgin daiquiris for Mercy. They are staying in a hut thatched with ancient palm fronds where the ripped mosquito netting has turned sulfurous yellow. At night, large cockroaches bounce off them and roll like earrings under the bed. They kiss over whole fried snappers and raw squid while a man in the street exhorts them to buy from his box of sunglasses. “No, gracias , no,” Jake says. He turns up his palms when he bargains with a woman for a wooden wind chime carved with scowling missionaries and says, “That's all there is.” In the water, rust-colored jellyfish drift around them. A boy gathers newspapers and trash from the beach to make into handbags. The sun is slow to sink and the ocean stays tepid all night. They fall asleep to the clatter of dead priests.

They go to the Indian casino down the highway. Mercy means it as a gesture of solidarity. She counts mileposts and wreaths of roadside casualties. A shuttle painted turquoise takes them from the parking garage to the lobby. They eat overpriced lo mein and hot and sour soup in a restaurant called The Lucky Lotus. Mercy's fortune cookie says Treasure what you have. Jake's cookie is missing its slip. “Empty fortune,” he says and crushes the cookie onto the bill tray. He kisses her hand as they walk past the craps table. He is a like a child waking from a nap. The ringing of the slot machines sounds like a thousand barcodes being scanned. Jake pulls a baseball cap out of his coat pocket and a pair of sunglasses. “Are we in disguise?” Mercy asks. Jake pinches her neck to hush her and veers toward the poker tables. Mercy puts two dollars worth of nickels into a game modeled on The Addams Family before buying a magazine and licorice whips at the gift store. In the faux courtyard, she perches on the edge of a fountain spewing dyed water and watches truck drivers and widows line up for free backscratchers in the shape of tomahawks.

“You need new wiper blades,” Mercy says. Jake doesn't say anything. He has lost twenty dollars at the casino. She has lost six hours of her life and two rolls of nickels. Sleet smears the windshield, obscuring the dark road. When they meet another car, the water glows on the glass. The wipers click along at the lowest setting. “You might need to turn those up.” Mercy feels mean and just wants to be in bed. Fog snakes off the pavement. Jake closes his eyes, and she flicks him on the shoulder. He opens his eyes but doesn't look at her. He closes his eyes again. This is a game they used to play when they were dating. She would reach over and steer. Now, she clicks the lighter into its socket and imagines the faint hiss of it heating. The patches of clear glass are growing briefer. They hit the dog going around a curve. Its body flies up onto the hood and into the windshield in front of Mercy's face. A maze of cracks blossoms. She hears it hit the roof, and then they are slowing, pulling to the side of the road. It is Jake who gets out of the car and walks back. She sees him in the side mirror, crouched on the shoulder, a pinpoint of blue from his keychain LED. A car swerves around the curve and he is caught in the glare, head ducked, almost unrecognizable.

Jake holds the dog wrapped in his parka; Mercy rings the doorbell. It is four o'clock in the morning and there are two lights on. From their right comes the rattle of a garage door opening. The dog's owner is a large man with creases like cuts in the flesh of his neck. The garage is cluttered with half-folded newspapers. “For my son's route,” the man explains, before they can say anything. He has been stuffing the papers into plastic sacks to protect them from the weather. Jake holds the dog out to him and tells him the story, too quickly. The man doesn't take the dog but wraps one of the bags around his knuckles saying, “Wait, slow down.” Jake thrusts the dog at him, and the man backs into a column of papers. As Mercy restacks them, the man starts crying. “It's too much,” he says, as though they have brought him an expensive gift. Jake lays the blue nylon bundle on the only empty chair; one sleeve slithers loose and makes them all start. The smell of wood pulp and wet ink fills the garage. There is nothing to do now but leave. In the car, backing down the long driveway, Mercy says, “You just bought that jacket,” as she searches between the seats for a napkin, afraid to look at Jake, her fingertips silky with plane crashes and robberies, drug busts and congressional panels, all the day's sad stories.