Andrea Barrett - The Air We Breathe

Leo, who had taken a pair of seats in the back row, near the third and last door to the corridor, was waiting nervously for Eudora. Nervous because she might not come; nervous because he wasn’t sure what it would mean if she did, or how he’d explain her presence. It wasn’t so uncommon for us to connect with the maids, the orderlies, or the nurses, and women among us sometimes had — why shouldn’t we admit it? — powerful crushes on some of the resident doctors, but none of this was officially permitted and Eudora, Leo knew, might risk her job if their behavior was seen as more than friendly.

He paced back and forth near the door, in everyone’s way. Bea and Polly smiled at each other when they saw him; they knew. Most of us had, like Irene, been aware of Leo’s moony glances for some time. We went, according to our inclination, to the front seats where we could stretch out and see every detail of the pictures, or to the sides and back where, if we had better things to do, we wouldn’t be observed. Once the main lights were out, there was only the glow from the screen and from the hooded lamps at the back of the room, which were placed, the staff said, for our safety, to help us see the doors and each other if we needed help — but which really served to let them keep watch on us.

It was 7:45, then 7:50, and still there was no Eudora; seats were swiftly disappearing and the two Leo had marked with newspapers would soon be claimed; she had never, he realized, had any intention of coming. She’d agreed only to placate him, so she could escape his questions that afternoon in the laboratory…

But here she was. A flowered dress, green leaves and red flowers — roses? — tumbling over a creamy background, light-colored stockings and shoes with a small curved heel and a strap across the instep; he’d never seen her unwrapped from the long, shapeless blue garment that all the maids wore to protect their clothes. Her hair, usually pulled back with two combs, hung softly around her face, framing her blue-gray eyes. In her heels she was nearly as tall as he was, and when he darted forward to greet her she drew back slightly, then laughed — at herself, he thought, not him — and touched his forearm.

“I’m so glad you came,” he said. He hoped she couldn’t see the tear in his collar, the only defect in the shirt he had, in anticipation of this evening, retrieved from the men’s donation bag.

“I said I would.”

“Yes, but — well, I’m glad. I saved us some seats here, near the door, where we won’t feel so cramped.”

What unusual coloring she had! That clear pale skin, flushed so smoothly over her cheeks that the top layers seemed transparent; he’d never seen anything like it. “Take the outside seat,” he said. “You can stretch your legs.”

Perhaps whole families up here looked like her? All he knew of the people in these mountains was what he saw of the staff. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he confessed as she sat and turned to him.

“I always like the movies.”

The lights went out and the projector whirred.

For weeks we’d been looking forward to the feature, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea . Newspaper accounts had promised underwater photography and the spectacle of a submarine attacked by a giant octopus; the room would be dim for more than an hour and the background music — Kathleen, after her success demonstrating the work of Stravinsky, had been recruited to play, which was something new for us — would cover up other, subtler noises. Women, during the frightening moments, might reach for comfort; men might lean protectively. In our anticipation of those possibilities we’d managed to forget what Miles had said during his last Wednesday appearance. The whole audience groaned with disappointment when a different title flickered on the screen.

Mick, the power-plant mechanic who doubled as our projectionist, called out, “It wasn’t my idea — don’t kill the messenger!” The laugh sweeping over the room almost drowned the deep voice saying: “It was mine.”

Dr. Richards, so often in New York raising money or in Albany talking to politicians, in Colorado Springs or Arizona inspecting other sanatoria, had joined us, a rare event. “A generous friend has arranged for us to see several short films instead,” he added from his seat next to Dr. Petrie in the front row.

Miles, some of us remembered. We had Miles to thank for this.

“It’s important that we keep up with events,” Dr. Richards continued. “I hope you’ll all pay appropriate attention.”

We sighed and settled in. As the first reel began we saw, not actors and gorgeous sets but scenes of the fighting in France. War footage, but not a newsreel; the titles announced these as scenes from the great battles of the previous summer. The man who’d filmed them, an American traveling with the Canadian troops, must have been very brave, but even the most amazing sequences didn’t impress us. Enormous guns belched enormous clouds, columns of men passed by on horses, men beat bells to signal approaching waves of gas. Kathleen played marching music over shots of battles and long waves of tangled wire; most of us, though, despite Dr. Richards’ admonition, weren’t watching very closely. We’d wanted the octopus and the leaden boots, something different to look at, some entertainment. Leo, distracted by Eudora’s presence, studied her profile in the light reflected from the screen.

“Look at that,” she whispered, tilting her face toward the sausage-shaped observation balloon, which tugged at the men who tethered it to the ground. “I didn’t know they were so big.”

“Huge,” he agreed, wondering what she’d do if he reached for her hand.

The balloon, Eudora saw, pushed like flesh through the netted ropes. Each scene was interesting in its own way; when the heavy artillery pieces were fired, the barrels moved like the plungers on hypodermic needles. Men ran through trenches, lay behind mounded sandbags, crossed open ground in great crowds, but never fell, were never shown wounded or dead although all around them — unless these scenes had been staged? — there must have been fallen soldiers. An illuminating torch drifted down from an airplane, lighting up the trenches below, but no men were caught in its beam. Miles Fairchild, she remembered, owned a factory that made cement, which went into concrete, from which bunkers were made.

The screen went blank at the end of the reel and Eudora started to say something to Leo about her latest experiment downstairs. But as the next reel started — ships attacked by submarines, sinking while passengers leapt into the ocean or scrabbled along an overturned hull — someone started coughing. The harshness, the compulsive quality, the desperation and wetness; before the overhead lights went on she’d already risen. Two figures rushed out the center door, supporting a figure between them. Those of us who’d leaned closer together straightened in the sudden cruel glare while Charlie and Zoltan, in the third row, righted the chairs that had been kicked over. Myra, we whispered, that was Myra . Although she’d been doing poorly the last few weeks, she particularly wanted to see the men walking on the ocean floor while fish swam past their helmets.

“A friend of yours?” Eudora asked Leo. By now she was looking expectantly toward the door.

He shook his head. The night nurse stepped in from the corridor, scanned the crowd, and then gestured toward Eudora.

“I have to go help,” she told Leo. “I’ll try to come back later.”

He watched her pass into the brightly lit corridor. Somewhere Myra, whom he hadn’t gotten to know, was being lowered onto a bed with ice packed over her chest to stop the bleeding; in a room or a corridor close to here was the mess she’d left behind, which Eudora was cleaning up. He slumped in his chair, watching the images flicker on the screen and trying to calculate how much longer was left on the reel, and what the chances were that he and Eudora might still have some time to talk between reels. When a hand fell on his shoulder he was so pleased that she was already back, so grateful that they still had part of the evening, that he forgot his need for caution and closed his fingers around hers. It took a second for his grasp to loosen when he heard the words, “You got my letter!”