Show, The (16 page)

Grace put a program in her purse and then scanned the auditorium from left to right. When she finished, she grinned and looked at Joel with sparkling eyes that would never go out of style.

"The balcony."

CHAPTER 30: GRACE

Grace picked at her eye as Mary Pickford played with the lapel of her love interest in
Stella Maris
. Something had slid below her eyelid about halfway through the third movie and was quickly becoming a major irritant.

"Is something wrong?" Joel asked.

"I'm OK. I just have something in my eye."

"Do you need to take care of it?"

Grace nodded. She got up from her seat and stepped past her husband, who occupied an end seat of an end section. They had arrived too late to find something better. Everyone, it seemed, had wanted the middle of the balcony – not just couples celebrating their second anniversary two days late. When she reached the aisle, Grace placed her hand on Joel's and gave it a squeeze.

"I shouldn't be long. It's probably just an eyelash," she said. "But if the movie ends before I get back, don't wait for me. Meet me in the space between the restrooms."

"Take your time," Joel said.

Grace smiled softly at the dapper man letting go of her hand and proceeded down the steps. What a husband he had turned out to be, she thought. What a father too! When she had expressed interest in starting a family at the beginning of their marriage, he hadn't tried to talk her out of it with Joel Smith-style reason but had instead embraced her wish with enthusiasm and cheer. He'd told her that a house could wait and that other things could wait as well. He'd made it his mission to please his new wife and do everything in his power to ensure her happiness.

When she reached the main level of the auditorium, Grace stopped to look at the screen and saw that the black-and-white movie had again turned to color. For some reason, the film's producers had decided to apply a soft purple tint to certain scenes. Grace wasn't sure if she liked the rudimentary special effect, but she conceded that it was novel.

She rubbed her eye a few more times but succeeded only in making matters worse. So she walked briskly out of the auditorium and proceeded to the lobby. More than fifty people still wandered the public area. Some patrons seemed more interested in sampling beer, wine, and cheese than movies that had not been shown to wide audiences in more than eighty years.

Grace moved quickly toward the restroom, noticed the Braille sign by the door, and went into the well-lit chamber. Two women eyed her as she entered. The first, an elderly lady in a green dress, dried her hands with the machine on the wall, grabbed her purse, and exited. The second, a pretty college-age girl in a purple dress, lingered a few seconds. She applied a colorful balm to her lips, primped her red shoulder-length hair, and bolted out of the room.

Grace walked to the first available sink and went to work on her eye. She looked in the mirror and saw that the sclera had become red from irritation. As she had suspected, the culprit was an eyelash that had found its way to a hard-to-reach place beneath her eyelid.

She filled her hands several times with water and splashed her face until the pain and irritation began to subside. Sensing some progress, Grace checked her eye again and found residual redness but no renegade lash. Mission accomplished. She rinsed her hands, grabbed her purse, and turned toward the door. It was time to give one of those hand dryers a whirl.

As Grace stepped closer to the door, however, she noticed that the hand dryer had disappeared. No box with a button protruded from the wall. She turned around and saw other changes. No changing station hung from the far wall. Small baskets filled with white linens now occupied the left side of each washbasin.

Grace ran out of the restroom and noticed that the familiar plastic sign, with its universal symbol and raised surface, had disappeared. A smaller, simpler sign, no bigger than a business envelope, had taken its place. WOMEN now announced themselves in polished brass.

Dozens of people still roamed the lobby, people dressed for the occasion, but they roamed between four ornate walls, not tables offering beer, wine, and cheese. There were no tables offering beer, wine, and cheese. There was no concession stand. Grace felt her stomach turn as she ran across the room toward the entrance of the auditorium.

She opened the doors to the darkened chamber and moved quickly to the walkway that ran parallel to the last row of seats. She stared at the movie screen and finally saw something familiar. Mary Pickford stood in a purple field and threw her arms to a purple sky. For the first time in two minutes, Grace began to believe she was sane.

The moment didn't last. She noticed more differences as she moved along the walkway. Far fewer people sat in the lower section, and a male usher, not a young woman, greeted her at the base of the stairs. She ignored the hired help and quickly ascended the steps.

When Grace reached the balcony, she scanned the upper section and again saw half as many people. None of those in the front row or sitting in the end seats looked familiar. She walked briskly up the balcony stairs to the halfway point, where she had sat with Joel, but arrived to empty seats. No impatient husband awaited her.
No
husband awaited her.

Grace ran back down the stairs to the walkway, ignored the usher who asked her to slow down, and made a beeline for the lobby doors. If Mary Pickford flirted with a suitor in black and white, or even purple, Grace didn't notice.

She bolted through the doors to the edge of the lobby and again scanned the room. She saw groups of people leave the theater. She did not see Joel. So she opened her purse and pulled out a device she had only recently learned to use: a cell phone. Dialing the only number she knew, she called Joel. Joel did not answer. No one answered.

Grace's stomach began to turn like a lathe. She ran to each corner of the lobby in search of her husband but came up empty. She shouted his name through the door of the men's room, but no one answered. When she asked a couple standing nearby if they had seen a man fitting Joel's description, she got blank stares.

She ran to the windows in the front of the theater and got another shock. Model Ts and other period automobiles lined Pike Street on both sides. A barbershop stood where Bob had once sold burgers. A thrift shop had replaced Taco Tuesday.

Grace frantically pushed her way past a group of exiting moviegoers to an information counter, where she frantically asked the clerk if she could speak to a manager. He not so frantically told her he would find one in a minute.

"I can't wait," she said. "Something's not right. I need to speak to someone now!"

"Hold on, miss," another man said. "There's no need to shout."

"Yes, there is a reason. I can't find my husband! Nothing looks the same. Something is wrong," Grace screamed as she started to cry. "Something is very wrong."

"What seems to be the problem," a uniformed policeman said.

Grace looked at the cop with a mixture of relief and horror. He was the authority figure she wanted but he was dressed like an authority figure from the Edwardian era.

"You have to help me. You have to help me," she said.

The cop in the military-style uniform stuck his left hand out, as if to warn others to stay away, and then put his right on Grace's back. He slowly eased her away from the information counter and a crowd that had formed around the scene.

"Let's go over here and talk about it," he said.

"No. No. I don't want to talk about it. I want to find my husband!"

She turned her head back toward the information counter and saw the back of a dark-haired man who wore a suit like Joel's. She broke the hold of the officer and raced to the counter.

"There you are! Oh, thank God, there you are."

When Grace reached the man, she hugged him from behind.

"Oh, don't leave me, Joel. Don't leave me!"

The man snapped back and turned toward his attacker. He pushed her away.

"Get a hold of yourself, miss."

Grace looked at his face and saw that he was not her husband of two years, the one she had invited out on a special evening, the one who could rescue her from this nightmare.

"All right, you come with me," the policeman said as he grabbed her arm.

Grace resisted and pulled free of his grasp. Then she saw a stack of newspapers in a metal stand against the wall and ran toward it, plowing through another group of people along the way. When she reached the stand, she pulled a paper from the top and scanned the front page. When she saw the date in the upper right corner, she ran back to the cop with tears in her eyes.

"Please tell me this is not today's date. Please tell me it's 2002!"

The policeman in the old-fashioned uniform looked at her like she was a strange and exotic animal – an animal that had gone mad, an animal that required careful treatment.

"Today is October 5, miss, a Saturday," he said calmly. "October 5, 1918."

Grace did not ask for elaboration. She did not say another word.

She simply looked at the crowd and fell to the floor.

CHAPTER 31: ALISTAIR

Seattle, Washington – Monday, October 7, 1918

Alistair Green thought of lunch as he walked down the hallway. He liked lunch. He craved lunch. It was his favorite meal of the day, a meal he did not want to skip visiting someone he did not know at a hospital halfway across town.

The lunch lover, however, was not one to disappoint a friend. So when Dr. Jasper Hubbard requested his presence at his earliest convenience, he put early ahead of convenient and rushed to Seattle General. Dr. Hubbard greeted him with a hand and a troubled expression near the nurse's station.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Alistair," Dr. Hubbard said. "I know you're busy, but I didn't know what else to do. The patient, a woman named Grace Smith, insisted on seeing you. She will not speak to anyone else. The police brought her here Saturday night. She apparently fainted after creating a disturbance at the Palladium."

"I still don't know what this has to do with me."

"Perhaps you can find out. I'm certain there is an explanation for all of this."

"I certainly hope so."

Alistair Green, history professor and dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at the university, followed Dr. Hubbard through the door to Room 205. Once inside, he placed his overcoat on a rack and took his first measure of a young woman who glared at him from her bed.

"I'm Professor Green. I was told that you wish to speak to me."

"I do."

"Well, how can I help you?"

"I want to go home," Grace said as she burst into tears.

"Where is your home?"

"Seattle."

"We're in Seattle."

"Not
my
Seattle. Take me back to the theater. Please!"

"I told you, Miss Smith, that the Board of Health has closed the theaters, at least for a few days," Dr. Hubbard said. "There is nothing we can do about that right now."

Alistair already knew about the order prohibiting all public assemblies in King County. The
Sun
had reported the ban in great detail in Sunday's edition. Groups could not gather in theaters, churches, restaurants, or pool halls until further notice.

"Is there something I can get you, dear?" Alistair said. "Is there something you want?"

"I want my babies!" Grace thundered.

Alistair shook his head and glanced at the doctor.

"What's going on here?"

Dr. Hubbard pulled Professor Green aside.

"I should probably show you something," he said. He pulled a small, unusual-looking card from the pocket of his white coat and handed it to Alistair. "The police found this in her purse. It is some sort of license."

Alistair examined the document. It bore a photo of the woman in the bed and the Seattle address of one Grace Smith. The Washington Department of Licensing had issued the card.

"I've never seen anything like this in my life," Alistair said.

"Look at the dates on the card."

Alistair reexamined the item. When he saw the birth date of the woman in question and the expiration date on the license, he jumped back. He returned the card to the physician and stared at him with wide eyes.

"Is this some sort of joke?"

"If it is, I'm not party to it," Dr. Hubbard said. "Miss Smith here says she's from the future."

"I
am
from the future," Grace said angrily, "and I want to go back!"

"It appears that whatever she has lost from this experience, she has not lost her spirit."

Dr. Hubbard spoke to Alistair in a lower voice.

"The police know nothing about her. They contacted the family at 2321 Wenatchee Avenue but learned that no one fitting her description lives in the area. She is a mystery to us all."

"How is her condition?"

"She appears to be normal. I can find nothing wrong with her physically, which, sadly, raises another issue."

"And what is that?"

"We cannot keep her here, not now. We're being overrun with patients suffering influenza. We've transferred most to other facilities but will eventually have to take on more. We simply cannot spare beds for perfectly healthy people."

"Yes, I know about the contagion. The women's dormitory at the university has been pressed into service and has already reached its capacity."

"The problem," Dr. Hubbard said, "is that I cannot bring myself to discharge a patient suffering such delusions. I've made calls to two psychiatric facilities but have not yet been able to make suitable arrangements. Until I do, perhaps you can learn more about her circumstances."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you. If you need anything, please ring one of the nurses."

Alistair watched Dr. Hubbard place the license in a purse on a small table near the door and exit the room. He then walked to the door, shut it, and turned to face the patient, who appeared as defiant as ever.

Anticipating a lengthy discussion, Alistair collected a chair that had been placed against the wall and moved it to the side of the bed. He sat down and took a moment to assess the feisty young woman who had requested his presence.