doors in the hallway. One was closed, the other ajar. Sure enough, inside was a tiny bathroom with an open shower stall and a child-sized sink. She filled the pitcher and brought it back to the room, then removed her blouse. Pouring some of the water into the basin, she applied a small, rough cloth and a yellowed bar of soap to clean herself. She used her finger and some toothpaste from a crinkled tube for her teeth. A proper bath would have to wait, until when, she didn’t know. In the mirror, her face was pale, her freckled skin even lighter than usual. Her thick hair was flat on one side and scrunched up on the other. She frowned, then tried to smooth the desperation from her expression. She squinted, trying to imagine herself as a woman in the 1930s. She couldn’t think of a future beyond tomorrow morning, when she’d go back to the bookstore and RSVP with her invitation to the Hemingway reading. She didn’t want to depend on Paul forever. The bigger question of how she got here and how she would get home loomed, but this question tipped her into overwhelm and she forced herself to stop thinking about it.
Instead, she dried off with a musty towel, put her blouse back on, and sat on the bed. From her jacket pocket she pulled out the pen. Heavy and solid in her hand, the gray and red barrel was smooth against her fingers. She pulled the cap off and poked the gold nib with her finger. A tiny drop of ink marked her skin. Scanning Paul’s desk, she found a sheaf of blank pages tucked into a book and pulled a few out. Sitting at the desk, she tried the pen.
She wrote for a few minutes, pouring her troubles onto the page. It felt good to write, and she wanted to keep going, but after a few pages, the ink thinned and then stopped. She shook the pen but it was dry. Recapping it, she tucked it in her jacket. Not sure what to do with the pages she’d written, she folded them and slipped them in a book at the bottom of a stack on the floor. It wouldn’t do for Paul to find what she’d written.
Fully clothed, she lay down on top of the bed and pulled the rough wool blanket over her. She was hungry, but was getting used to the lack of food. Just then, a knock came at the door. She froze.
“Lily, it’s Paul.”
At the door, Paul handed her a small basket with an apple, pear, a bit of bread and butter, and a hard-boiled egg.
“Here, some dinner,” he said. “This is all I could find. I hope it’s enough. I must go!”
With that, he closed the door and his steps faded away down the stairs. He had fled so quickly she hadn’t even been able to thank him. She took the basket to the desk and enjoyed the simple meal like she’d never enjoyed a meal before. She couldn’t believe her luck.
Even so, she couldn’t go on like this for long. How to get money, and how to get home, she mused, eating the pear. Her mind spun through scenario after scenario, trying to figure out how she could have gotten here, what she had been doing before she arrived that might lead to some understanding of this incomprehensible situation. The more she thought about it, the more her stomach tightened. Maybe sleep would bring an answer. That’s it, she decided, standing and dusting the breadcrumbs from her lap. Tomorrow morning I will know what to do. She snuggled into the bed, this time climbing under the covers. She turned off the desk lamp and fell asleep under the soft glow from the skylight.
A SOFT KNOCK woke her, accompanied by a muffled “Lily!” A wisp of a dream—a crowded bookstore, a man reading aloud, a woman glowering at her—slipped away. Opening her eyes, Lily recognized Paul’s small room, her jacket hanging on the chair, the stacks of books and papers on the desk. She was irritated to be awakened from the dream. Again the soft knock, followed by a muted “Lily, bonjour!” When she opened the door, Paul held a small tray arranged with a bowl of milky coffee and half a baguette with a small pot of butter.
“Bonjour,”
Instead, she dried off with a musty towel, put her blouse back on, and sat on the bed. From her jacket pocket she pulled out the pen. Heavy and solid in her hand, the gray and red barrel was smooth against her fingers. She pulled the cap off and poked the gold nib with her finger. A tiny drop of ink marked her skin. Scanning Paul’s desk, she found a sheaf of blank pages tucked into a book and pulled a few out. Sitting at the desk, she tried the pen.
She wrote for a few minutes, pouring her troubles onto the page. It felt good to write, and she wanted to keep going, but after a few pages, the ink thinned and then stopped. She shook the pen but it was dry. Recapping it, she tucked it in her jacket. Not sure what to do with the pages she’d written, she folded them and slipped them in a book at the bottom of a stack on the floor. It wouldn’t do for Paul to find what she’d written.
Fully clothed, she lay down on top of the bed and pulled the rough wool blanket over her. She was hungry, but was getting used to the lack of food. Just then, a knock came at the door. She froze.
“Lily, it’s Paul.”
At the door, Paul handed her a small basket with an apple, pear, a bit of bread and butter, and a hard-boiled egg.
“Here, some dinner,” he said. “This is all I could find. I hope it’s enough. I must go!”
With that, he closed the door and his steps faded away down the stairs. He had fled so quickly she hadn’t even been able to thank him. She took the basket to the desk and enjoyed the simple meal like she’d never enjoyed a meal before. She couldn’t believe her luck.
Even so, she couldn’t go on like this for long. How to get money, and how to get home, she mused, eating the pear. Her mind spun through scenario after scenario, trying to figure out how she could have gotten here, what she had been doing before she arrived that might lead to some understanding of this incomprehensible situation. The more she thought about it, the more her stomach tightened. Maybe sleep would bring an answer. That’s it, she decided, standing and dusting the breadcrumbs from her lap. Tomorrow morning I will know what to do. She snuggled into the bed, this time climbing under the covers. She turned off the desk lamp and fell asleep under the soft glow from the skylight.
A SOFT KNOCK woke her, accompanied by a muffled “Lily!” A wisp of a dream—a crowded bookstore, a man reading aloud, a woman glowering at her—slipped away. Opening her eyes, Lily recognized Paul’s small room, her jacket hanging on the chair, the stacks of books and papers on the desk. She was irritated to be awakened from the dream. Again the soft knock, followed by a muted “Lily, bonjour!” When she opened the door, Paul held a small tray arranged with a bowl of milky coffee and half a baguette with a small pot of butter.
“Bonjour,”
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