The time traveler's wife (30 page)

"No.. .I was happy to see you. And you
were telling me something that was important, personal, even though you were careful
not to tell any names or places. It was still your real life, and I was
desperate for anything that helped me believe you were real and not some
psychosis of mine. That's also why I was always touching you." I laugh.
"I never realized how difficult I was making things for you. I mean, I did
everything I could think of, and you were just cool as could be. You must have
been dying"

"For example?"

"What's for dessert?"

Henry dutifully gets up and brings dessert.
It's mango ice cream with raspberries. It has one little candle sticking out of
it at an angle; Henry sings Happy Birthday and I giggle because he's so
off-key; I make a wish and blow out the candle. The ice cream tastes superb; I
am very cheerful, and I scan my memory for an especially egregious episode of
Henry baiting.

"Okay. This was the worst. When I was
sixteen, I was waiting for you late one night. It was about eleven o'clock, and
there was a new moon, so it was pretty dark in the clearing. And I was kind of
annoyed with you, because you were resolutely treating me like—a child, or a
pal, or whatever—and I was just crazy to lose my virginity. I suddenly got the
idea that I would hide your clothes
          
"

"Oh, no."

"Yes. So I moved the clothes to a
different spot..." I'm a little ashamed of this story, but it's too late
now.

"And?"

"And you appeared, and I basically teased
you until you couldn't take it."

"And?"

"And you jumped me and pinned me, and for
about thirty seconds we both thought 'This is it.' I mean, it wasn't like you
would've been raping me, because I was absolutely asking for it. But you got
this look on your face, and you said 'No,' and you got up and walked away. You
walked right through the Meadow into the trees and I didn't see you again for
three weeks."

"Wow. That's a better man than I."

"I was so chastened by the whole thing
that I made a huge effort to behave myself for the next two years."
"Thank goodness. I can't imagine having to exercise that much willpower on
a regular basis."

"Ah, but you will, that's the amazing
part. For a long time I actually thought you were not attracted to me. Of
course, if we are going to spend our whole lives in bed, I suppose you can
exercise a little restraint on your jaunts into my past."

"Well, you know, I'm not kidding about
wanting that much sex. I mean, I realize that it's not practical. But I've been
wanting to tell you: I feel so different. I just.. .feel so connected to you.
And I think that it holds me here, in the present. Being physically connected
the way that we are, it's kind of rewiring my brain." Henry is stroking my
hand with his fingertips. He looks up. "I have something for you. Come and
sit over here."

I get up and follow him into the living room.
He's turned the bed into the couch and I sit down. The sun is setting and the
room is washed in rose and tangerine light. Henry opens his desk, reaches into
a pigeonhole, and produces a little satin bag. He sits slightly apart from me;
our knees are touching. He must be able to hear my heart beating, I think. It's
come to this, I think. Henry takes my hands and looks at me gravely. I've
waited for this so long and here it is and I'm frightened.

"Clare?"

"Yes?" My voice is small and scared.

"You know that I love you. Will you marry
me?"

"Yes...Henry." I have an overwhelming
sense of deja vu. "But you know, really.. .1 already have."

Sunday, May 31, 1992 (Clare is 21, Henry is 28)

Clare: Henry and I are standing in the
vestibule of the apartment building he grew up in. We're a little late already,
but we are just standing here; Henry is leaning against the mailboxes and
breathing slowly with his eyes closed.

"Don't worry," I say. "It can't
be any worse than you meeting Mama."

"Your parents were very nice to me."

"But Mama is.. .unpredictable."

"So's Dad." Henry inserts his key
into the front door lock and we walk up one flight of stairs and Henry knocks
on the door of an apartment. Immediately it is opened by a tiny old Korean
woman: Kimy. She's wearing a blue silk dress and bright red lipstick, and her
eyebrows have been drawn on a little lopsided. Her hair is salt-and-pepper
gray; it's braided and coiled into two buns at her ears. For some reason she
reminds me of Ruth Gordon. She comes up to my shoulder, and she tilts her head
back and says, "Ohhh, Henry, she's bee-yoo-tiful!" I can feel myself
turn red. Henry says, "Kimy, where are your manners?" and Kimy laughs
and says, "Hello, Miss Clare Abshire!" and I say "Hello, Mrs.
Kim." We smile at each other, and she says, "Oh, you got to call me
Kimy, everybody call me Kimy." I nod and follow her into the living room
and there's Henry's dad, sitting in an armchair. He doesn't say anything, just
looks at me. Henry's dad is thin, tall, angular, and tired. He doesn't look
much like Henry. He has short gray hair, dark eyes, a long nose, and a thin mouth
whose corners turn down a little. He's sitting all bunched up in his chair, and
I notice his hands, long elegant hands that lie in his lap like a cat napping.
Henry coughs and says, "Dad, this is Clare Abshire. Clare, this is my
father, Richard DeTamble."

Mr. DeTamble slowly extends one of his hands,
and I step forward and shake it. It's ice cold. "Hello, Mr. DeTamble. It's
nice to meet you," I say.

"Is it? Henry must not have told you very
much about me, then." His voice is hoarse and amused. "I will have to
capitalize on your optimism. Come and sit down by me. Kimy, may we have
something to drink?"

"I was just going to ask everyone—Clare,
what would you like? I made sangria, you like that? Henry, how 'bout you?
Sangria? Okay. Richard, you like a beer?"

Everyone seems to pause for a moment. Then Mr.
DeTamble says, "No, Kimy, I think I'll just have tea, if you don't mind
making it." Kimy smiles and disappears into the kitchen, and Mr. DeTamble
turns to me and says, "I have a bit of a cold. I've taken some of that
cold medicine, but I'm afraid it just makes me drowsy."

Henry is sitting on the couch, watching us. All
the furniture is white and looks as though it was bought at a JCPenney around
1945. The upholstery is protected with clear plastic, and there are vinyl
runners over the white carpet. There's a fireplace that looks as though it's
never used; above it is a beautiful ink painting of bamboo in wind.

"That's a wonderful painting," I say,
because no one is saying anything. Mr. DeTamble seems pleased. "Do you
like it? Annette and I brought it back from Japan in 1962. We bought it in
Kyoto, but the original is from China. We thought Kimy and Dong would like it.
It is a seventeenth-century copy of a much older painting."

"Tell Clare about the poem " Henry
says.

"Yes; the poem goes something like this:
'Bamboo without mind, yet sends thoughts soaring among clouds. Standing on the
lone mountain, quiet, dignified, it typifies the will of a gentleman. —Painted
and written with a light heart, Wu Chen.'"

"That's lovely," I say. Kimy comes in
with drinks on a tray, and Henry and I each take a glass of sangria while Mr.
DeTamble carefully grasps his tea with both hands; the cup rattles against the
saucer as he sets it on the table beside him. Kimy sits in a small armchair by
the fireplace and sips her sangria. I taste mine and realize that it's really
strong. Henry glances at me and raises his eyebrows. Kimy says, "Do you
like gardens, Clare?"

"Um, yes," I say. "My mother is
a gardener."

"You got to come out before dinner and see
the backyard. All my peonies are blooming, and we got to show you the
river."

"That sounds nice." We all troop out
to the yard. I admire the Chicago River, placidly flowing at the foot of a
precarious stairway; I admire the peonies. Kimy asks, "What kind of garden
does your mom have? Does she grow roses?" Kimy has a tiny but well-ordered
rose garden, all hybrid teas as far as I can tell.

"She does have a rose garden. Actually,
Mama's real passion is irises."

"Oh. I got irises. They're over there."
Kimy points to a clump of iris. "I need to divide them, you think your mom
would like some?"

"I don't know. I could ask." Mama has
more than two hundred varieties of iris. I catch Henry smiling behind Kimy's
back and I frown at him. "I could ask her if she wants to trade you some
of hers; she has some that she bred herself, and she likes to give them to
friends."

"Your mother breeds iris?" Mr.
DeTamble asks.

"Uh-huh. She also breeds tulips, but the
irises are her favorites."

"She is a professional gardener?"

"No," I say. "Just an amateur.
She has a gardener who does most of the work and there's a bunch of people who
come in and mow and weed and all that."

"Must be a big yard," Kimy says. She
leads the way back into the apartment. In the kitchen a timer goes off.
"Okay," says Kimy. "It's time to eat." I ask if I can help
but Kimy waves me into a chair. I sit across from Henry. His dad is on my right
and Kimy's empty chair is on my left. I notice that Mr. DeTamble is wearing a
sweater, even though it's pretty warm in here. Kimy has very pretty china;
there are hummingbirds painted on it. Each of us has a sweating cold glass of
water. Kimy pours us white wine. She hesitates at Henry's dad's glass but
passes him over when he shakes his head. She brings out salads and sits down.
Mr. DeTamble raises his water glass. "To the happy couple," he says.
"Happy couple," says Kimy, and we all touch glasses and drink. Kimy
says, "So, Clare, Henry say you are an artist. What kind of artist?"

"I make paper. Paper sculptures."

"Ohh. You have to show me sometime 'cause
I don't know about that. Like origami?"

"Uh, no."

Henry intercedes. "They're like that
German artist we saw down at the Art Institute, you know, Anselm Kiefer. Big
dark scary paper sculptures."

Kimy looks puzzled. "Why would a pretty
girl like you make ugly things like that?"

Henry laughs. "It's art, Kimy. Besides,
they're beautiful."

"I use a lot of flowers," I tell
Kimy. "If you give me your dead roses I'll put them in the piece I'm
working on now."

"Okay," she says. "What is
it?"

"A giant crow made out of roses, hair, and
daylily fiber."

"Huh. How come a crow? Crows are bad
luck." "They are? I think they're gorgeous."

Mr. DeTamble raises one eyebrow and for just a
second he does look like Henry; he says, "You have peculiar ideas about
beauty."

Kimy gets up and clears our salad plates and
brings in a bowl of green beans and a steaming plate of "Roast Duck with
Raspberry Pink Peppercorn Sauce." It's heavenly. I realize where Henry
learned to cook. "What you think?" Kimy demands. "It's
delicious, Kimy," says Mr. DeTamble, and I echo his praise. "Maybe
cut down on the sugar?" Henry asks. "Yeah, I think so, too,"
says Kimy. "It's really tender though," Henry says, and Kimy grins. I
stretch out my hand to pick up my wine glass. Mr. DeTamble nods at me and says,
"Annette's ring looks well on you."

"It's very beautiful. Thank you for
letting me have it."

"There's a lot of history in that ring,
and the wedding band that goes with it. It was made in Paris in 1823 for my great-great-great-grandmother,
whose name was Jeanne. It came to America in 1920 with my grandmother, Yvette,
and it's been sitting in a drawer since 1969, when Annette died. It's good to
see it back out in the light of day."

I look at the ring, and think, Henry's mom was
wearing this when she died. I glance at Henry, who seems to be thinking the
same thing, and at Mr. DeTamble, who is eating his duck. "Tell me about
Annette," I ask Mr. DeTamble. He puts down his fork and leans his elbows
on the table, puts his hands against his forehead. He peers at me from behind
his hands. "Well, I'm sure Henry must have told you something."

"Yes. A little. I grew up listening to her
records; my parents are fans of hers."

Mr. DeTamble smiles. "Ah. Well then, you
know that Annette had the most marvelous voice...rich, and pure, such a voice,
and such range...she could express her soul with that voice, whenever I
listened to her I felt my life meant more than mere biology... she could really
hear, she understood structure and she could analyze exactly what it was about
a piece of music that had to be rendered just so...she was a very emotional
person, Annette. She brought that out in other people. After she died I don't
think I ever really felt anything again."

He pauses. I can't look at Mr. DeTamble so I
look at Henry. He's staring at his father with an expression of such sadness
that I look at my plate. Mr. DeTamble says, "But you asked about Annette,
not about me. She was kind, and she was a great artist; you don't often find
that those go together. Annette made people happy; she was happy herself. She
enjoyed life. I only saw her cry twice: once when I gave her that ring and the
other time when she had Henry."