The time traveler's wife (26 page)

"Come on, Henry," say Alicia.
"Hey, do either of you want anything to drink?"

"No," Clare says.

"What have you got?" I ask. Alicia
snaps on a light and a beautiful old bar appears at the far end of the room.
Alicia and I huddle behind it and lo, there is just about everything I can
imagine in the way of alcohol. Alicia mixes herself a rum and Coke. I hesitate
before such riches, but finally pour myself a stiff whiskey. Clare decides to
have something after all, and as she's cracking the miniature tray of ice cubes
into a glass for her Kahlua the door opens and we all freeze. It's Mark.
"Where's Sharon?" Clare asks him. "Lock that," commands
Alicia. He turns the lock and walks behind the bar. "Sharon is
sleeping," he says, pulling a Heineken out of the tiny fridge. He uncaps
it and saunters over to the table. "Who's playing?"

"Alicia and Henry," says Clare.

"Hmm. Has he been warned?"

"Shut up, Mark," Alicia says.

"She's Jackie Gleason in disguise,"
Mark assures me. I turn to Alicia. "Let the games begin." Clare racks
again. Alicia gets the break. The whiskey has coated all my synapses, and
everything is sharp and clear. The balls explode like fireworks and blossom into
a new pattern. The 13 teeters on the edge of a corner pocket and then falls.
"Stripes again," Alicia says. She sinks the 15, the 12, and the 9
before a bad leave forces her to try an unmakable two-rail shot. Clare is
standing just at the edge of the light, so that her face is in shadow but her
body floats out of the blackness, her arms folded across her chest. I turn my
attention to the table. It's been a while. I sink the 2, 3, and 6 easily, and
then look for something else to work with. The 1 is smack in front of the corner
pocket at the opposite end of the table, and I send the cue ball into the 7
which drops the 1.1 send the 4 into a side pocket with a bank shot and get the
5 in the back corner with a lucky carom. It's just slop, but Alicia whistles
anyway. The 7 goes down without mishap. "Eight in the corner" I
indicate with my cue, and in it goes. A sigh escapes around the table.

"Oh, that was beautiful," says
Alicia. "Do it again." Clare is smiling in the dark.

"Not your usual," Mark says to
Alicia.

"I'm too tired to concentrate. And too
pissed off."

"Because of Dad?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if you poke him, he's going to poke
back."

Alicia pouts. "Anybody can make an honest
mistake."

"It sounded like Terry Riley for a minute
there," I tell Alicia. She smiles. "It was Terry Riley. It was from
Salome Dances for Peace!"

Clare laughs. "How did Salome get into
Silent Night?"

"Well, you know, John the Baptist, I
figured that was enough of a connection, and if you transpose that first violin
part down an octave, it sounds pretty good, you know, la la la, LA..."

"But you can't blame him for getting
mad," says Mark. "I mean, he knows that you wouldn't play something
that sounded like that by accident."

I pour myself a second drink.

"What did Frank say?" Clare asks.

"Oh, he dug it. He was, like, trying to
figure out how to make a whole new piece out of it, you know, like Silent Night
meets Stravinsky. I mean, Frank is eighty-seven, he doesn't care if I fuck
around as long as he's amused. Arabella and Ashley were pretty snitty about it,
though."

"Well, it isn't very professional,"
says Mark.

"Who cares? This is just St. Basil's, you
know?" Alicia looks at me. "What do you think?"

I hesitate. "I don't really care," I
say finally. "But if my dad heard you do that, he'd be very angry."

"Really? Why?"

"He has this idea that every piece of
music should be treated with respect, even if it isn't something he likes much.
I mean, he doesn't like Tchaikovsky, or Strauss, but he will play them very
seriously. That's why he's great; he plays everything as though he's in love
with it."

"Oh." Alicia walks behind the bar,
mixes herself another drink, thinks this over. "Well, you're lucky to have
a great dad who loves something besides money."

I'm standing behind Clare, running my fingers
up her spine in the dark. She puts her hand behind her back and I clasp it.
"I don't think you would say that if you knew my family at all. Besides,
your dad seems to care about you very much."

"No " she shakes her head. "He
just wants me to be perfect in front of his friends. He doesn't care at
all." Alicia racks the balls and swivels them into position. "Who
wants to play?"

"I'll play," Mark says.
"Henry?"

"Sure." Mark and I chalk our cues and
face each other across the table. I break. The 4 and the 15 go down. "Solids,"
I call, seeing the 2 near the corner. I sink it, and then miss the 3
altogether. I'm getting tired, and my coordination is softening from the
whiskies. Mark plays with determination but no flair,

and sinks the 10 and the 11. We soldier on, and
soon I have sunk all the solids. Mark's 13 is parked on the lip of a corner
pocket. "8 ball," I say pointing at it. "You know, you can't
drop Mark's ball or you'll lose," says Alicia. "'S okay," I tell
her. I launch the cue ball gently across the table, and it kisses the 8 ball
lovingly and sends it smooth and easy toward the 13, and it seems to almost
detour around the 13 as though on rails, and plops decorously into the hole,
and Clare laughs, but then the 13 teeters, and falls.

"Oh, well," I say. "Easy come, easy
go."

"Good game," says Mark.

"God, where'd you learn to play like
that?" Alicia asks.

"It was one of the things I learned in
college." Along with drinking, English and German poetry, and drugs. We
put away the cues and pick up the glasses and bottles.

"What was your major?" Mark unlocks
the door and we all walk together down the hall toward the kitchen.

"English lit."

"How come not music?" Alicia balances
her glass and Clare's in one hand as she pushes open the dining room door. I
laugh. "You wouldn't believe how unmusical I am. My parents were sure
they'd brought home the wrong kid from the hospital."

"That must have been a drag," says
Mark. "At least Dad's not pushing you to be a lawyer" he says to
Alicia. We enter the kitchen and Clare flips on the light.

"He's not pushing you either" she
retorts. "You love it."

"Well, that's what I mean. He's not making
any of us do something we don't want to do." "Was it a drag?"
Alicia asks me. "I would have been lapping it up."

"Well, before my mom died, everything was
great. After that, everything was terrible. If I had been a violin prodigy,
maybe.. .I dunno." I look at Clare, and shrug. "Anyway, Dad and I
don't get along. At all."

"How come?"

Clare says, "Bedtime." She means,
Enough already. Alicia is waiting for an answer. I turn my face to her.
"Have you ever seen a picture of my mom?" She nods. "I look like
her."

"So?" Alicia washes the glasses under
the tap. Clare dries.

"So, he can't stand to look at me. I mean,
that's just one reason among many."

But—

"Alicia—" Clare is trying, but Alicia
is unstoppable. "But he's your dad."

I smile. "The things you do to annoy your
dad are small beer compared with the things my dad and I have done to each
other."

"Like what?"

"Like the numerous times he has locked me
out of our apartment, in all kinds of weather. Like the time I threw his car
keys into the river. That kind of thing."

"Why'dja do that?"

"I didn't want him to smash up the car,
and he was drunk."

Alicia, Mark, and Clare all look at me and nod.
They understand perfectly.

"Bedtime," says Alicia, and we all
leave the kitchen and go to our rooms without another word, except, "Good
night."

Clare: It's 3:14 a.m. according to my alarm
clock and I am just getting warm in my cold bed when the door opens and Henry
comes in very quietly. I pull back the covers and he hops in. The bed squeaks
as we arrange ourselves.

"Hi" I whisper.

"Hi" Henry whispers back.

"This isn't a good idea."

"It was very cold in my room."

"Oh." Henry touches my cheek, and I
have to stifle a shriek. His fingers are icy. I rub them between my palms.
Henry burrows deeper into the covers. I press against him, trying to get warm
again. "Are you wearing socks?" he asks softly.

"Yes." He reaches down and pulls them
off my feet. After a few minutes and a lot of squeaking and Shhh! we are both
naked.

"Where did you go, when you left
church?"

"My apartment. For about five minutes,
four days from now."

"Why?"

"Tired. Tense, I guess" "No, why
there?"

"Dunno. Sort of a default mechanism. The
time travel air traffic controllers thought I would look good there,
maybe." Henry buries his hand in my hair. It's getting lighter outside.
"Merry Christmas," I whisper. Henry doesn't answer, and I lie awake
in his arms thinking about multitudes of angels, listening to his measured
breath, and pondering in my heart.

Henry: In the early hours of the morning I get
up to take a leak and as I stand in Clare's bathroom sleepily urinating by the
illumination of the Tinkerbell nightlight I hear a girl's voice say
"Clare?" and before I can figure out where this voice is coming from
a door that I thought was a closet opens and I find myself standing stark naked
in front of Alicia. "Oh," she whispers as I belatedly grab a towel
and cover myself. "Oh, hi, Alicia," I whisper, and we both grin. She
disappears back into her room as abruptly as she came in.

Clare: I'm dozing, listening to the house
waking up. Nell is down in the kitchen singing and rattling the pans. Someone
walks down the hall, past my door. I look over and Henry is still deep in
sleep, and I suddenly realize that I have got to get him out of here without
anyone seeing. I extricate myself from Henry and the blankets and climb out of
bed carefully. I pick my nightgown up off the floor and I'm just pulling it on
over my head when Etta says, "Clare! Rise and shine, it's Christmas!"
and sticks her head in the door. I hear Alicia calling Etta and as I poke my
head out of the nightgown I see Etta turn away to answer Alicia and I turn to
the bed and Henry is not there. His pajama bottoms are lying on the rug and I
kick them under the bed. Etta walks into my room in her yellow bathrobe with
her braids trailing over her shoulders. I say "Merry Christmas!" and
she is telling me something about Mama, but I'm having trouble listening because
I'm imagining Henry materializing in front of Etta. "Clare?" Etta is
peering at me with concern.

"Huh? Oh, sorry. I'm still asleep, I
guess."

"There's coffee downstairs." Etta is
making the bed. She looks puzzled.

"I'll do that, Etta. You go on down."
Etta walks to the other side of the bed. Mama sticks her head in the door. She
looks beautiful, serene after last night's storm. "Merry Christmas,
honey."

I walk to her, kiss her cheek lightly.
"Merry Christmas, Mama." It's so hard to stay mad at her when she is
my familiar, lovely Mama.

"Etta, will you come down with me?"
Mama asks. Etta thwaps the pillows with her hands and the twin impressions of
our heads vanish. She glances at me, raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say
anything.

"Etta?"

"Coming..." Etta bustles out after
Mama. I shut the door after them and lean against it, just in time to see Henry
roll out from under the bed. He gets up and starts to put his pajamas on. I
lock the door.

"Where were you?" I whisper.

"Under the bed," Henry whispers back,
as though this should be obvious.

"All the time?"

"Yeah." For some reason this strikes
me as hilarious, and I start to giggle. Henry puts his hand over my mouth, and
soon we are both shaking with laughter, silently.

Henry: Christmas Day is strangely calm after
the high seas of yesterday. We gather around the tree, self-conscious in our
bathrobes and slippers, and presents are opened, and exclaimed over. After
effusive thanks on all sides, we eat breakfast. There is a lull and then we eat
Christmas dinner, with great praise for Nell and the lobsters. Everyone is
smiling, well-mannered, and good-looking. We are a model happy family, an
advertisement for the bourgeoisie. We are everything I always longed for when I
sat in the Lucky Wok restaurant with Dad and Mrs. and Mr. Kim every Christmas
Day and tried to pretend I was enjoying myself while the adults all watched
anxiously. But even as we lounge, well-fed, in the living room after dinner,
watching football on television and reading the books we have given each other
and attempting to operate the presents which require batteries and/or assembly,
there is a noticeable strain. It is as though somewhere, in one of the more
remote rooms of the house, a cease-fire has been signed, and now all the
parties are endeavoring to honor it, at least until tomorrow, at least until a
new consignment of ammunition comes in. We are all acting, pretending to be
relaxed, impersonating the ideal mother, father, sisters, brother, boyfriend,
fiancee. And so it is a relief when Clare looks at her watch, gets up off the
couch, and says, "Come on, it's time to go over to Laura's."