by John Domini
Bette was back. She was in his way, uncharacteristically slouched, stooping to catch his eye.
“Twenty minutes,” she said.
Kit almost went into her. Breaking momentum took all the air he had.
“Twenty minutes, Kit. Can we keep her breathing?”
Kit, uncertain, made a face. He was still moving, shuffling, Zia hanging from his neck.
“Look’r legs,” he managed.
Frowning, Bette watched him. Kit thought of punk slam-dancing in slow motion.
“Has she moved at all, Kit?”
He thought of Zia’s gag reflex. He shook his head.
“Lay her out,” Bette ordered. “Lay her on the floor.”
His wife had to help. The first time Kit tried to lower himself, he almost pitched over headfirst. The next time, Bette knelt under him and caught Zia across the breasts. They turned her together, and Bette propped the head back so the jaw hung ajar. Jesus, the human body could seem inert. Floppy and helpless as paper. Kit himself could only drop onto his butt red-faced and gulping, with one leg splayed.
“Mouth to mouth,” Bette said. “Keep her breathing.”
Already she had her fingers between Zia’s parted teeth. She probed and then squinted into the opening, her long throat relaxed. Med School training.
“I’ll go first,” Bette said, and with that she was down on the other woman’s face. Down on that bloodless, helpless face, while her own flushed as red as something out of Zia’s postcards. At least Zia’s chest changed shape, rising as Bette blew into it. Kit noticed the writer’s shirt, a bulky blue flannel. A lumberjack shirt. Menswear. He was thinking about men, about heroes and troublemakers and men. But these were thoughts, only. They flickered, nothing more. Then he was in place beside his wife, making sure the air was reaching the sick girl’s diaphragm. Gently he laid his empty hands on her.
“Any time.”
His work was simple now. Simple and all to the good.
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