I thought for a while that he would never speak again, or at least not to me. And even though I walked in thinking we would toast and laugh, a part of me knew it would go exactly as it did. Jordan F was always giving me grief for not donating, separating myself from the town, but he didn’t really want anything to change. He liked that I knew nothing about bloodwork. When you’ve known someone your whole life, all it means when you feel surprised is that you’re fooling yourself.
* * *
Shortly after, my sister, Lulu, needed a kidney. It got worse was all she said on the phone, but I knew what she meant — she’d been sick since we were small.
Jordan F and I had been distant since that night at Boon’s, so I asked Lulu not to mention anything. Sure thing, Lulu said, which usually meant she wasn’t listening. The next day, Jordan F was at my doorstep. You’re saving the life of our little sister, he said, and you thought I would give you a hard time? She’s not your sister, I said. Jordan F always loved Lulu, used to say when she smiles, armies around the world stop fighting. (Jordan F, due to his line of work I suppose, always talked about the war as if any pause in the fighting was a precious gift, more than we should expect.)
* * *
Look, I’m sorry I was an asshole, Jordan F said. If you want to start donating, you should start donating. Who am I to say? I was only surprised, he added, because I thought you’d ask me for money if you were short, that’s all. His voice squeaked as it does when he lies, but I smiled. He was trying his best.
* * *
To donate a kidney, you had to belong to an organization; the organization issued a card, and I was put on a database. People from around the world started writing to me, sharing awful stories. I read and kept every letter, mainly out of superstition — I had a feeling that, the day I got rid of one, Lulu’s body would start rejecting my kidney. But I only filed the letters and ignored them; I saw no point in writing back to disappoint. And I wasn’t about to give away any more of my organs. Life had calmed down: Lulu was getting better, Jordan F wasn’t mad at me — which mattered more than I cared to admit, more than it should have — and once a week I would go late at night to donate some blood and feel high. It was enough money to keep me going, and no one in town seemed to talk about it much. On the nights when Jordan F was home between deliveries, we would be at Boon’s until the dark started to fade, and whenever Lulu was feeling up to it she would drive over and join us. We avoided any talk of blood or the war or donations, and for a while all of that was just fine.
* * *
When I got the letter from the woman in Uzbekistan, I filed it away with the rest, but it stayed with me. In my dream that night, she and I were sitting at the top of a mountain, playing card games. The game seemed to be whoever gets the king wins. I’ll tell you what, the woman said in a British accent, if I get the king three times, you have to give me what I want. And if I get the king three times? I asked. No one will bother you again, she said.
* * *
I woke up and thought about it rationally. I’d never been a smoker. I was pretty certain I could do with one lung.
* * *
A reporter from a local paper a few towns over contacted me after that, wanted to run a story. You are an altruistic man, he said, and for a moment I let myself think perhaps I was, so I said Thank you. When he asked why I did it, I said this kind of giving made me happy. I said “It’s a special feeling.” I didn’t describe the feeling. I avoided the word high. The reporter used some Russian woman to pose as the Uzbekistani patient in the photographs, but all in all he did a decent job. And it was strange — reading it, I felt I was looking at a self of mine I hadn’t known.
* * *
I expected an angry call from Jordan F. The story revealed I’d been a single-lung man for weeks, and I figured at the very least he’d be hurt I never told him. I also figured he’d have some things to say. He wouldn’t be able to dismiss it as silly provocation this time, nor would he consider it justified as he did with Lulu. He might be outraged. He might tell me that he didn’t know who I was anymore. He might say something worse.
* * *
When he called I took a deep breath and held the air at the top of my lung for as long as I could. Then I exhaled and answered the phone. I want Lulu to start going on deliveries with me, Jordan F said. Okay, I said, confused. Maybe he hadn’t seen the article after all. You are her real brother, so I wanted to run it by you, he said. Okay, I said. It would still be a while before she’d go back to work, he said, and in the meantime the fresh air would do her a world of good. Okay, I said. I sat there for a long time after we hung up, feeling the weight of my body, the weight of all my organs, pulling me toward the ground.
* * *
A week later, my ex called — a woman I thought I loved once because her muscles were strong and her smile soft. I hadn’t heard from Katrina since I broke up with her three years before, but Lulu claimed to have seen her once on a street corner, begging for money. She was a carpenter when we were together, but I guess when times got rough few people were spared.
* * *
On the phone, Katrina said I’d broken her heart. She needed a new one. She’d read the story about me and surely if I was helping perfect strangers whose wounds I hadn’t caused, I would help her. I could tell she was reading from a note. Due to my broken heart, she was saying, I have been rendered unable to work, degraded to panhandling. Kati, I said, a heart’s no small thing. You’re not using yours anyway, Katrina said — her first spontaneous words in the conversation. She was clearly being sarcastic, but she made a valid point.
* * *
I knew it was a big decision, of course, but it felt small to me. Jordan F and Lulu were on the road, so I saw no need to share the news.
* * *
What I learned about charity was, word always gets around. People kept finding me. The woman with the facial reconstructive surgery gone bad was the next letter that got my attention. She used to be so beautiful restaurants paid her to patronize them. And perhaps, as Jordan F pointed out inside my head, beauty was not the thing to worry about in a time of war. I was often talking to Jordan F in my head. But, I thought, that is what the woman is asking of me, that is what she needs.
* * *
Lulu called from the road that evening, said she couldn’t tell me where they were but she was getting stronger with every passing day. It used to be that Jordan F went on long deliveries only when the fighting got worse somewhere and the demand for blood was especially high. How come you’re away so long? I asked Lulu. You know I can’t answer that, she said, but you can figure it out. Nothing’s been reported, I said. That’s not how it works anymore, she said; reporting risks lives. I held the phone for a bit, not knowing what to say. Then Lulu said, From what I understand, you work in blood now yourself, so what’s with the war judgment? Let’s talk about something else, I told her, and besides I only donate blood once a week, to get by. You know, she said, I keep telling J. that you know what you’re doing; if you’re donating organs, you’re donating organs, we should still support you. But I see now what he means when he says you’ve changed. Please stop, I told her. I was starting to shake. If Jordan F has something to say, he should call me himself, I said, and hung up.