Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

Dr. Lucas Hamilton

I did wonder how we'd live off canned peaches, oatmeal and lard, but it seems the owner of the boarding house will provide lunch and dinner for us going forward. Her son Luther brought baskets of sandwiches on homemade bread at lunch time, and it's understood we'll join her boarders at the boarding house for dinner when work doesn't prevent us from leaving.

I give myself a good scrub before borrowing a shirt and trousers from Sumner. Honestly, I'm glad to wear them. They're less provocative than my skinny trousers given the current style seems to be voluminous pants with pleats and jackets with exaggerated shoulders.

I'm tying my tie when Sumner comes down the stairs. He wears a button-down shirt with tweed trousers, a matching vest, and bow tie.

"We look spiffy," he says while combing fingers through his full hair. He hands me a flat cap. "This is for you."

"Thank you." I put it on, but there's no mirror to see how I look. "Is that the fashion? Vests and bowties?"

"I'll let you in on a secret." He retrieves a homburg hat from reception. "I like to play the elder statesman."

"Subterfuge, like that hair of yours?" I almost lift my hand to touch it. I want to see if it's as soft as it looks, but I'd probably electrocute him. Damned static build-up.

He shrugs. "There's no harm in a white lie every now and then."

"You should have been a spy."

"How do you know I wasn't?" He flicks me a smile and adjusts my cap. I feel jauntier now that he's tweaked it.

"I assumed being a military doctor is too time-consuming to take up espionage." I sit down to put on my shoes.

"Well, you're right about that. Wear the socks, please. People will think you're a hobo if you don't."

I pull on the socks he's laid out. "It's probably for the best. I hate having dirty feet."

"I don't mind dirty feet as long as they're dry." Sumner opens the door and ushers me outside. "Trench foot is an unforgettable nightmare."

This is the first time I've been out since we went to find the carnival. Then, I was too emotional to pay attention. The landscape looks so different without the thick haze of a dust storm.

I'm shocked by how pleasant it is. "It's nice tonight."

"One can see for a change."

Sumner starts walking and I follow. The air cools as the sun sets. From horizon to horizon, the sky is painted in every shade of cerulean and plum and fiery orange. A waxing moon glows along with the evening star. There are no real clouds, just streaks here and there. What are those called? Cirrus clouds. Mare's tails. A lazy breeze invites little dust dervishes to whirl on the street.

Since I arrived in this place and in this time, I've wondered why anyone would live here. Now I know. It reminds me of New Mexico, which I have grown to love fiercely. Deserts and plains serve hard beauty. Nature directs light, earth, and sky like characters in an ever-changing drama. It's wild. It's unknowable. It's haughty, as if it's laughing at people who think they'll tame it.

I look past the buildings into the immense barren land beyond and it's…humbling.

"You all right, Luke?" I feel Sumner watching me closely. He does that. Maybe he thinks I don't notice. Perhaps to him, I'm an alien life form worth the effort of deeper study.

I sigh. "Just taking in the view."

He hums. "Wild, isn't it? When I was growing up in New York, it was impossible to imagine this much space existed anywhere. The first time my father took me to California by train, the west set my imagination on fire."

I feel the same way. "You know what's funny? I don't know if I chose Santa Fe or if it chose me."

"Artists are drawn to New Mexico."

"I'm no artist." Though I draw and even paint sometimes, I scoff at the very idea. "The farthest thing from it."

"You never know." He catches my wrist and pulls me to the right on a cross street. I follow, and he lets go. I wish he didn't, but there are more people on the street than I realized at first. The occasional car passes by. In fact, a sheriff's cruiser creeps along beside us for a few seconds, causing fear to slither down my spine. If the police were to stop and ask me where I come from or what I'm doing practicing medicine without a legitimate license, I don't know what I'd do.

"I'm scared here. I've never been scared to walk down the street before." The admission is painful. "How can I live here? I have no identification, no funds. How can I practice medicine? Half the things I use every day haven't been invented yet."

He perks up. "Like what?"

"In a few years, a drug called penicillin will cure everything from strep throat to syphilis."

"Dear Lord." His eyes widen. "That sounds too good to be true."

"That's one isolated discovery."

"That's amazing." He grips my arm. "Tell me about it. What is it?"

"They get it from mold. That's where this gets complicated." Shit. I've seen time-travel movies. I don't know what I can—or should—say about the future. I don't trust myself to be a wise time traveler. God, I hope I'm insane. "If I told you some of the things I know, I'd sound crazier than I already do. Think how much has changed since the industrial revolution and then, speed that up until it's like dominoes falling. Telegraph, telephone, phonograph, wireless, movies, cars, planes?—"

"I see what you mean." He bumps my shoulder with his in a gesture meant to comfort me, I think. We pass a couple of men, smoking outside a downtrodden bookstore. "What can you tell me?"

"Smoking causes lung cancer."

His mouth drops open. "I knew it. How can inhaled smoke be healthy? It beggars the imagination."

I shove my hands in my pockets. "I can't do this job without the things I take for granted. It's fucking awful."

He laughs. "You might not believe this, but I know the feeling."

The sky is already fading from blood orange to gold. Soon it will be indigo with a fiery crack on the western horizon. The brighter stars sparkle in the heavens.

"I know it's unbearable to listen to old men talk about war, so I won't bore you with the details," he continues. "But losing a man because you don't have the things you need to save him becomes a way of life. We could only do so much in the field. It's time, you know. Treating a wounded man quickly is of the utmost importance."

"The first hour after a traumatic injury is the most critical. Not exactly easy on a battlefield."

"You said you didn't serve?"

"I watch a lot of documentary films. In fact, I watched a film about the drought crisis here."

"Do we accomplish anything? How do we do it? I'll send Franklin a telegram."

"President Roosevelt will succeed out here. But in some areas, he makes huge mistakes." I'm thinking about red lining specifically. The FHA is a Roosevelt baby, but they officially deny loans to people based on where they live. That hit minority communities like a wrecking ball.

"Maybe you'll tell me?" he asks hopefully.

"Maybe." I'm going to be a crappy time traveler, I know it.

He points to a building that looks like a cross between a house and a hotel. "Here we are. McKenzie's Room and Board."

He removes his hat before knocking.

Beryl opens the door. "You're late. We weren't going to wait any longer."

"I'm sorry." I remove my cap. Do I hold it? Roll it up and put it in my pocket? I've never worn hats. I don't know.

"Hello, gentlemen." A well-groomed woman in a floral apron enters the foyer. She holds out her hands for our hats. "Don't tease them, Beryl. You're just in time."

"Thank you." Sumner nods politely.

"Yes. Thank you." I don't know what to do with my hands now. I'm hyperaware of them hanging limply by my side, so I clasp them behind my back. This feels like a play where I don't have the script.

"Follow me. You'll take your meal in the dining room with the rest of my boarders."

The dining room is what I expect with built in cabinets for china, serving dishes, and linens against one wall and a large window on the wall opposite. A long table is set simply and surrounded by mismatched chairs. There's a centerpiece made of paper flowers. Beryl introduces us to a fellow boarder, Devon. He's plain. Round faced with gold rimmed glasses. He looks to be in his twenties. Luther, who brought us lunch, shows us to our places.

"I hope we didn't keep you too long." Sumner pulls out Rose's chair while I do likewise with Beryl's. Devon aids Marie, and we laugh nervously when we're all seated with nothing to say.

"I understand you opened the clinic today," says Devon.

Marie sits to his left. Beryl is to his right. Sumner and I flank Rose opposite them. I'm feeling very Downton Abbey , and it strikes exactly the wrong note, especially when I remember how thin the children at the clinic were.

Rose gives me a gentle nudge. "It went well, I thought."

Sumner's watching me. I pick up my napkin. "I thought so too. Early days, though."

Marie says, "I think you did an excellent job, Dr. Delano. Word will soon spread that we're not here to experiment on the children."

Sumner sputters. "Marie."

The others laugh nervously. Luther and Mrs. Mackenzie return with some kind of broth, which has little flecks of dumpling in it. Spaetzle, maybe? I realize they're not going to join us, but no one says why. I feel ignorant and ill at ease as it is. It's awkward being served like this when I see others going hungry.

Wait. There are always people going hungry. In my old life, they were simply beneath my notice. The realization is a hard pill to swallow.

Luther and Mrs. Mackenzie melt into the background throughout our meal of soup, roast chicken, beets, and canned green beans. There's chocolate pudding for dessert. Despite the humble nature of the food, it's served with grace and every effort at hospitality, though any chitchat is over. Except for the occasional noises of people chewing, it's mercilessly quiet.

After we finish, Luther clears the plates away. Mrs. McKenzie invites us into the parlor for after dinner drinks. One thing I am learning is that while food is scarce here, alcohol is plentiful. If I recall correctly, prohibition ended in 1933 and seeing that this is one of the bleakest landscapes I've ever seen, having plenty of alcohol to brighten it makes sense. I'm offered a choice between a homemade elderberry cordial and whisky or gin. I choose gin, and Sumner chooses whisky. I notice the three nurses choose whisky as well, while Devon settles into a wingback chair by the window with Elderberry cordial and a well-loved copy of Ivanhoe . Luther and Devon smoke. Sumner doesn't.

Sumner stands by the fireplace with his arm propped on the mantle. The women seem to want to move from place to place, looking into the curio cabinet and bookshelves. I spot the piano, and it's as if I've found family here. I zero right in on it, unable to keep from shuffling through the sheet music on top.

"Do you play, Luke?" Sumner is standing close. When did he move? Why did he?

"I do." I set fingers to the keys. "Do you know, this is the first time I've felt normal since?—"

"Play it, then." Sumner gives me all the encouragement I need.

I glance around. Though the nurses are watching us, Devon appears to be in his own little world. "It's noisy."

"It's music. It will be lovely." Rose comes to join us.

"We can sing along." Beryl picks up a stack of sheet music to look through. "Though if you don't want to play, we can listen to the radio."

I don't take my hands off the instrument. It can't be in tune, not with the temperature fluctuations and the dry air. I'm sure I'm not the only person who plays. Mrs. McKenzie must know how, or why would she have it?

Despite my misgivings, I nod stiffly. "If it's all right with everyone, I'd like to."

"It's all right with me," Devon says without looking up from his book. "I could read through the apocalypse."

I give in to the temptation that gripped me as soon as I spotted the instrument and run my fingers through the scale. Then I play a couple of chords.

Sumner winces, and our eyes meet. "It's a bit out of tune."

"I will be too, but who cares?" Beryl pulls an Irving Berlin song from the pile. "Play this. It's my mother's favorite."

" 'Always?'" I open the music and realize I know the tune. "Oh, okay. Yes."

It's a simplified version for beginning piano players. Easy. As soon as I start, Beryl sings along. Rose and Sumner join in at the chorus. Even Marie wanders over. They harmonize, and it sounds lovely.

This is karaoke, before karaoke is a thing.

We play a couple more songs Beryl likes, and then we play one for Rose: "Flow Gently Sweet Afton." I have a Pride and Prejudice flashback, and it makes me laugh.

I switch to the early romantic period composers I identify with most. Rose turns the pages, so I'm able to lose myself entirely in something that is as familiar to me as breathing. After I finish one of Chopin's Nocturnes, I realize it's getting late. I swivel on the stool to find Marie and Beryl drowsing on the sofa while Sumner sits in the chair Devon occupied. When did Devon leave?

"I think it's time we made our way back." Sumner stands. Rose and the others stand and stretch. We mutter things like, "It's late," and "We should get our rest," and "Tomorrow will be another long day."

I would have pitched face first into my cot right then, had we been at the clinic.

"Of course." I put the music away. "Thank you for letting me indulge myself."

"I enjoyed it." Rose hands over my cap. "I hope we can do this again."

"I'll be happy to. Thank you." I catch sight of Sumner adjusting his homburg hat. My god. He's so beautiful. I understood this fact before, but I'm stricken speechless by how he looks right now. Mature and world weary, but also impossibly capable. Sumner carries inner strength like Atlas carries the world.

I'm a man of conscience and principles, but Sumner makes me feel like a freshman with a crush on his handsome professor.

I've observed him tonight. I've admired his looks, his physical grace, his generous smile. I've catalogued each of his features separately—his silver hair, wise eyes, and the very bones that give him such a noble profile. More times than not, the gas flame blue of his eyes are on me in return.

Now I'm simply in shock. I'm under his spell when I say goodnight to the others. I step into the dark, wondering how I'll survive this attraction. I feel like the air in the seconds before a storm, crackling with energy. I'm lightning with nothing to ground me.

"What's wrong, Luke?" Sumner asks. "You seem out of sorts."

My mouth has gone dry. I have to unstick my lips and teeth before I talk. "I don't know if I'm entirely sane."

"Oh, that again." One of his eyebrows is quirked, as though he finds me amusing. I hate how well he already knows me. Considering how hard I've worked to build a wall of arrogance around me, its failure is galling.

Sumner's eyes soften, but there's something else there. Something conflicted. It's annoying that I can't hide anything from him. I have no idea what he's thinking.

"What else could it be?" I search the sky for a new subject. "Wow, look at that. So many stars are visible right now. No wind."

"Beautiful," he murmurs.

In a movie, I'd turn and catch him looking at me and not the stars.

This isn't a romantic comedy. It's a nightmare. I still wish he'd look at me and say "Beautiful," just like that.