The time traveler's wife (31 page)

Another pause. Finally I say, "You were
very lucky."

He smiles, still shielding his face in his
hands. "Well, we were and we weren't. One minute we had everything we
could dream of, and the next minute she was in pieces on the expressway."
Henry winces.

"But don't you think," I persist,
"that it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you
lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?"

Mr. DeTamble regards me. He takes his hands
away from his face and stares. Then he says, "I've often wondered about
that. Do you believe that?"

I think about my childhood, all the waiting,
and wondering, and the joy of seeing Henry walking through the Meadow after not
seeing him for weeks, months, and I think about what it was like not to see him
for two years and then to find him standing in the Reading Room at the Newberry
Library: the joy of being able to touch him, the luxury of knowing where he is,
of knowing he loves me. "Yes," I say. "I do." I meet
Henry's eyes and smile. Mr. DeTamble nods. "Henry has chosen well."
Kimy gets up to bring coffee and while she's in the kitchen Mr. DeTamble
continues, "He isn't calibrated to bring peace to anyone's life. In fact,
he is in many ways the opposite of his mother: unreliable, volatile, and not
even especially concerned with anyone but himself. Tell me, Clare: why on earth
would a lovely girl like you want to marry Henry?"

Everything in the room seems to hold its
breath. Henry stiffens but doesn't say anything. I lean forward and smile at
Mr. DeTamble and say, with enthusiasm, as though he has asked me what flavor of
ice cream I like best: "Because he's really, really good in bed." In
the kitchen there's a howl of laughter. Mr. DeTamble glances at Henry, who
raises his eyebrows and grins, and finally even Mr. DeTamble smiles, and says,
" Touche, my dear."

Later, after we have drunk our coffee and eaten
Kimy's perfect almond torte, after Kimy has shown me photographs of Henry as a
baby, a toddler, a high school senior (to his extreme embarrassment); after
Kimy has extracted more information about my family ("How many rooms? That
many! Hey, buddy, how come you don't tell me she beautiful and rich?"), we
all stand at the front door and I thank Kimy for dinner and say good night to
Mr. DeTamble.

"It was a pleasure, Clare," he says.
"But you must call me Richard."

"Thank you.. .Richard." He takes my
hand for a moment and for just that moment I see him as Annette must have seen
him, years ago—and then it's gone and he nods awkwardly at Henry, who kisses
Kimy, and we walk downstairs and into the summer evening. It seems like years
have passed since we went inside.

"Whoosh," says Henry. "I died a
thousand deaths, just watching that."

"Was I okay?"

"Okay? You were brilliant! He loved
you!"

We are walking down the street, holding hands.
There's a playground at the end of the block and I run to the swings and climb
on, and Henry takes the one next to me, facing the opposite direction, and we
swing higher and higher, passing each other, sometimes in synch and sometimes
streaming past each other so fast it seems like we're going to collide, and we
laugh, and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or
far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal
the joy of this perfect moment.

Wednesday, June 10, 1992 (Clare is 21)

Clare: I'm sitting by myself at a tiny table in
the front window of Cafe Peregolisi, a venerable little rat hole with excellent
coffee. I'm supposed to be working on a paper on Alice in Wonderland for the
History of the Grotesque class I'm taking this summer; instead I'm daydreaming,
staring idly at the natives, who are bustling and hustling in the early evening
of Halsted Street. I don't often come to Boy's Town. I figure I will get more
work done if I'm somewhere that no one I know will think to look for me. Henry
has disappeared. He's not home and he wasn't at work today. I am trying not to
worry about it. I am trying to cultivate a nonchalant and carefree attitude.
Henry can take care of himself. Just because I have no idea where he might be
doesn't mean anything is wrong. Who knows? Maybe he's with me. Someone is
standing on the other side of the street, waving. I squint, focus, and realize
that it's the short black woman who was with Ingrid that night at the Aragon.
Celia. I wave back, and she crosses the street. Suddenly she's standing in
front of me. She is so small that her face is level with mine, although I am
sitting and she is standing.

"Hi, Clare," Celia says. Her voice is
like butter. I want to wrap myself in her voice and go to sleep.

"Hello, Celia. Have a seat." She
sits, opposite me, and I realize that all of her shortness is in her legs;
sitting down she is much more normal looking.

"I hear tell you got engaged," she
says. I hold up my left hand, show her the ring. The waiter slouches over to us
and Celia orders Turkish coffee. She looks at me, and gives me a sly smile. Her
teeth are white and long and crooked. Her eyes are large and her eyelids hover
halfway closed as though she's falling asleep. Her dreadlocks are piled high
and decorated with pink chopsticks that match her shiny pink dress.

"You're either brave or crazy," she
says.

"So people tell me."

"Well, by now you ought to know."

I smile, shrug, sip my coffee, which is room
temperature and too sweet. Celia says, "Do you know where Henry is right
now?" "No. Do you know where Ingrid is right now?"

"Uh-huh," Celia says. "She's
sitting on a bar stool in Berlin, waiting on me." She checks her watch.
"I'm late." The light from the street turns her burnt-umber skin blue
and then purple. She looks like a glamorous Martian. She smiles at me.
"Henry is running down Broadway in his birthday suit with a pack of
skinheads on his tail" Oh, no. The waiter brings Celia's coffee and I
point at my cup. He refills it and I carefully measure a teaspoon of sugar in and
stir. Celia stands a demi-tasse spoon straight up in the tiny cup of Turkish
coffee. It is black and dense as molasses. Once upon a time there were three
little sisters. ..and they lived at the bottom of a well... Why did they live
at the bottom of a well?...It was a treacle well. Celia is waiting for me to
say something. Curtsy while you're thinking what to say. It saves time.
"Really?" I say. Oh, brilliant, Clare.

"You don't seem too worried. My man were
running around in his altogether like that I would wonder a little bit,
myself."

"Yeah, well, Henry's not exactly the most
average person."

Celia laughs. "You can say that again,
sister." How much does she know? Does Ingrid know? Celia leans toward me,
sips her coffee, opens her eyes wide, raises her eyebrows and purses her lips.
"You really gonna marry him?"

A mad impulse makes me say, "If you don't
believe me you can watch me do it. Come to the wedding."

Celia shakes her head. "Me? You know,
Henry don't like me at all. Not one bit."

"Well, you don't seem to be a big fan of
his, either."

Celia grins. "I am now. He dumped Miss
Ingrid Carmichel hard, and I'm picking up the pieces." She glances at her
watch again. "Speaking of whom, I am late for my date." Celia stands
up, and says, "Why don't you come along?"

"Oh, no thanks."

"Come on, girl. You and Ingrid ought to
get to know each other. You have so much in common. We'll have a little
bachelorette party."

"In Berlin?"

Celia laughs. "Not the city. The
bar." Her laugh is caramel; it seems to emanate from the body of someone
much larger. I don't want her to go, but
           

"No, I don't think that would be such a
good idea." I look Celia in the eye. "It seems mean." Her gaze
holds me, and I think of snakes, of cats. Do cats eat bats?.. .Do bats eat
cats? "Besides, I have to finish this."

Celia flashes a look at my notebook.
"What, is that homework? Ohh, it's a school night! Now just listen to your
big sister Celia, who knows what's best for little schoolgirls—hey, you old
enough to drink?"

"Yes " I tell her proudly. "As
of three weeks ago."

Celia leans close to me. She smells like
cinnamon. "Come on come on come on. You got to live it up a little before
you settle down with Mr. Librarian Man. Come oooooonnnn, Clare. Before you know
it you be up to your ears in Librarian babies shitting their Pampers full of
that Dewey decimal system."

"I really don't think—"

"Then don't say nothin', just come
on." Celia is packing up my books and manages to knock over the little
pitcher of milk. I start to mop it up but Celia just marches out of the cafe
holding my books. I rush after her.

"Celia, don't, I need those—" For
someone with short legs and five-inch heels she's moving fast.

"Uh-uh, I'm not giving 'em back till you
promise you're coming with me."

"Ingrid won't like it." We are
walking in step, heading south on Halstead toward Belmont. I don't want to see
Ingrid. The first and last time I saw her was the Violent Femmes concert and
that's fine with me.

"'Course she will. Ingrid's been very
curious about you." We turn onto Belmont, walk past tattoo parlors, Indian
restaurants, leather shops and storefront churches. We walk under the El and
there's Berlin. It doesn't look too enticing on the outside; the windows are
painted black and I can hear disco pulsating from the darkness behind the skinny
freckled guy who cards me but not Celia, stamps our hands and suffers us to
enter the abyss. As my eyes adjust I realize that the entire place is full of
women. Women are crowded around the tiny stage watching a female stripper
strutting in a red sequined G-string and pasties. Women are laughing and
flirting at the bar. It's Ladies' Night. Celia is pulling me toward a table.
Ingrid is sitting there by herself with a tall glass of sky blue liquid in
front of her. She looks up and I can tell that she's not too pleased to see me.
Celia kisses Ingrid and waves me to a chair. I remain standing.

"Hey, baby," Celia says to Ingrid.

"You've got to be kidding," says
Ingrid. "What did you bring her for?" They both ignore me. Celia
still has her arms wrapped around my books.

"It's cool, Ingrid, she's all right. I
thought y'all might want to become better acquainted, that's all." Celia
seems almost apologetic, but even I can see that she's enjoying Ingrid's
discomfort. Ingrid glares at me. "Why did you come? To gloat?" She
leans back in her chair and tilts her chin up. Ingrid looks like a blond
vampire, black velvet jacket and blood red lips. She is ravishing. I feel like
a small-town school girl. I hold out my hands to Celia and she gives me my
books.

"I was coerced. I'm leaving now." I
begin to turn away but Ingrid shoots out a hand and grabs my arm.

"Wait a minute—" She wrenches my left
hand toward her, and I stumble and my books go flying. I pull my hand back and
Ingrid says,"— you're engaged?" and I realize that she's looking at
Henry's ring. I say nothing. Ingrid turns to Celia. "You knew, didn't
you?" Celia looks down at the table, says nothing. "You brought her
here to rub it in, you bitch." Her voice is quiet. I can hardly hear her
over the pulsing music.

"No, Ing, I just—"

"Fuck you, Celia." Ingrid stands up.
For a moment her face is close to mine and I imagine Henry kissing those red
lips. Ingrid stares at me. She says, "You tell Henry he can go to hell.
And tell him I'll see him there." She stalks out. Celia is sitting with
her face in her hands. I begin to gather up my books. As I turn to go Celia
says, "Wait."

I wait. Celia says, "I'm sorry,
Clare." I shrug. I walk to the door, and when I turn back I see that Celia
is sitting alone at the table, sipping Ingrid's blue drink and leaning her face
against her hand. She is not looking at me. Out on the street I walk faster and
faster until I am at my car, and then I drive home and I go to my room and I
lie on my bed and I dial Henry's number but he's not home and I turn out the
light but I don't sleep.

BETTER LIVING
THROUGH CHEMISTRY

Sunday, September 5, 1993 (Clare is 22, Henry
is 30)

Clare: Henry is perusing his dog-eared copy of
the Physicians' Desk Reference. Not a good sign.

"I never realized you were such a drug
fiend." "I'm not a drug fiend. I'm an alcoholic." "You're
not an alcoholic" "Sure I am."

I lie down on his couch and put my legs across
his lap. Henry puts the book on top of my shins and continues to page through
it.

"You don't drink all that much."

"I used to. I slowed down somewhat after I
almost killed myself. Also my dad is a sad cautionary tale." "What
are you looking for?"

"Something I can take for the wedding. I
don't want to leave you standing at the altar in front of four hundred
people." "Yeah. Good idea." I ponder this scenario and shudder.
"Let's elope." He meets my eyes. "Let's. I'm all for it."
"My parents would disown me." "Surely not."