The Air We Breathe by Andrea Barrett

told Eudora to listen as the sound of the engine changed, repeated what he’d told us. Naomi steered along the edge of the lake, where some geese who should have headed south earlier were huddled by the benches in the park, and then drove into the village, past the lights and the people walking through the wet flakes. Miles completed his story and then said, shyly, that he thought the afternoon had gone well.
    Eudora agreed. They passed two doctors who worked at the private sanatorium up by the tobogganing hill; three boarders from Mrs. Martin’s house, standing in front of the theater; the mayor, walking his dachshund; one of the druggists talking with the director of the second-best funeral parlor. The dachshund, Eudora saw in the light pouring out from the theater, trotted along on his dwarfed legs as if he were exactly as important as the mayor.
    They passed the village train station, so much more welcoming than the siding at Tamarack State, and then pulled up at Eudora’s house. Inside, she knew, her parents would be sitting at the table, waiting dinner for her, listening to the empty rooms. If she was lucky, Eugene might have come over from the garage, in search of a home-cooked meal. If not, she’d be on her own, caught in her parents’ silence. What did they do all day, now that she was working at the sanatorium and everyone else was gone?
    â€œThat was a treat,” she said to Naomi, opening the car door. “Thank you.”
    As she was about to walk back and untie her bicycle, Miles cleared his throat and said through the open door, “I wonder if you—I mean this for both of you—I know you’re both busy but you did seem interested in what we were talking about…Would you like to join in our sessions? Officially, I mean, not just listening on the side like you’ve been doing.”
    Naomi hesitated just as Eudora said, “I’d be delighted.”

    MILES WAS DELIGHTED that they’d said yes. Later that week, tucked into his bed at Mrs. Martin’s house, he wrote to Edward Hazelius:
    I hope this finds you well. I am doing well myself, very comfortable in my fine room. Just now I am in my excellent bed, the windows open and the alpaca shawl you so thoughtfully sent on my shoulders. The electric lamp shines down on my tray, which neatly holds my pen and papers; the covers are snugged over my legs; what more could I want?
    Well, my health, of course. And to be back in my own house and, if not back at work, at least planning travels with you and Lawrence. Our last trip has been very present to me these weeks, as I go through my journals from that summer and talk to strangers about our work. The experiment I described to you continues—our group had its third meeting this week—and although I meant to speak only at the first meeting, and only as an example to the others, I’ve found myself surprisingly caught up in the pleasure of sharing what I know. Also I’ve been stimulated by the realization of how very little the Tamarack State inmates know about the world around them. In education (or lack thereof), background, and training they are not dissimilar to the hands at your plant or mine.
    Because of this I’m often forced to backtrack, defining terms as I describe aspects of where we went or what we found; even the simplest principles of sedimentary deposition are beyond them. But this week I made real progress, I think. There is one inmate who seems particularly alert and whose face I use as a sort of living barometer; when I have his attention, I know I’m speaking well. This week he asked me about Kovalevsky! That a man in his position should know that name…
    Sorry—that blot marks the entrance of my very vigorous landlady, Mrs. Martin, come round with our evening glasses of hot milk and some fresh gingerbread. A crisply starched apron; her hair perfectly coiffed and a smile on her face—you could not find a better