The time traveler's wife (54 page)

I hold out her coat and she feels around for
the arm hole; finds it and shrugs on the coat. "Silly? I guess. But I'm
willing to pretend that Jane Egland is young and beautiful instead of a
three-hundred-pound cow because she has the voice of Euterpe."

"Euterpe?"

"The muse of music." We join the
stream of exiting, satiated listeners. Downstairs we flow out into the cold. I
march us up Wacker Drive a bit and manage to snare a cab after only a few
minutes. I'm about to give the cabbie Charisse's address when she says,
"Henry, let's go have coffee. I don't want to go home yet." I tell
the cabbie to take us to Don's Coffee Club, which is on Jarvis, at the northern
edge of the city. Charisse chats about the singing, which was sublime; about
the sets, which we both agree were not inspired; about the moral difficulties
of enjoying Wagner when you know he was an anti-Semitic asshole whose biggest
fan was Hitler. When we get to Don's, the joint is jumping; Don is holding
court in an orange Hawaiian shirt and I wave to him. We find a small table in
the back. Charisse orders cherry pie a la mode and coffee, and I order my usual
peanut butter and jelly sandwich and coffee. Perry Como is crooning from the
stereo and there's a haze of cigarette smoke drifting over the dinette sets and
garage sale paintings. Charisse leans her head on her hand and sighs.

"This is so great. I feel like sometimes I
forget what it was like to be a grown-up."

"You guys don't go out much?"

Charisse mushes her ice cream around with her
fork, laughs. "Joe does this. He says it tastes better if it's mushy. God,
I'm picking up their bad habits instead of them learning my good ones."
She eats a bite of pie. "To answer your question, we do go out, but it's
almost always to political stuff. Gomez is thinking about running for
alderman."

I swallow my coffee the wrong way and start to
cough. When I can talk again I say, "You're joking. Isn't that going over
to the dark side? Gomez is always slamming the city administration."

Charisse gives me a wry look. "He's
decided to change the system from within. He's burned out on horrible child
abuse cases. I think he's convinced himself that he could actually improve
things if he had some clout."

"Maybe he's right."

Charisse shakes her head. "I liked it
better when we were young anarchist revolutionaries. I'd rather blow things up
than kiss ass."

I smile. "I never realized that you were
more radical than Gomez."

"Oh, yeah. Actually, it's just that I'm
not as patient as Gomez. I want action."

"Gomez is patient?"

"Oh, sure. I mean, look at the whole thing
with Clare—" Charisse abruptly stops, looks at me.

"What whole thing?" I realize as I
ask the question that this is why we are here, that Charisse has been waiting
to talk about this. I wonder what she knows that I don't know. I wonder if I
want to know what Charisse knows. I don't think I want to know anything.
Charisse looks away, and then back at me. She looks down at her coffee, puts
her hands around the cup. "Well, I thought you knew, but, like— Gomez is
in love with Clare."

"Yes." I'm not helping her out with
this. Charisse is tracing the grain of the table's veneer with her finger.
"So.. .Clare has been telling him to take a hike, and he thinks that if he
just hangs in there long enough, something will happen, and he'll end up with
her."

"Something will happen...?"

"To you." Charisse meets my eyes. I
feel ill. "Excuse me" I say to her. I get up and make my way to the
tiny Marilyn Monroe-plastered bathroom. I splash my face with cold water. I lean
against the wall with my eyes closed. When it becomes obvious that I'm not
going anywhere I walk back into the cafe and sit down. "Sorry. You were
saying?"

Charisse looks scared and small.
"Henry," she says quietly. "Tell me."

"Tell you what, Charisse?"

"Tell me you aren't going anywhere. Tell
me Clare doesn't want Gomez. Tell me everything's going to work out. Or tell me
it's all shit, I don't know—just tell me what happens!" Her voice shakes.
She puts her hand on my arm, and I force myself not to pull away.

"You'll be fine, Charisse. It'll be
okay." She stares at me, not believing and wanting to believe. I lean back
in my chair. "He won't leave you."

She sighs. "And you?"

I am silent. Charisse stares at me, and then
she bows her head. "Let's go home," she says, finally, and we do.

Sunday, June 12, 2005 (Clare is 34, Henry is
41)

Clare: It's a sunny Sunday afternoon, and I
walk into the kitchen to find Henry standing by the window staring out at the
backyard. He beckons me over. I stand beside him and look out. Alba is playing
in the yard with an older girl. The girl is about seven. She has long dark hair
and she is barefoot. She wears a dirty T-shirt with the Cubs' logo on it. They
are both sitting on the ground, facing each other. The girl has her back to us.
Alba is smiling at her and gesturing with her hands as though she is flying.
The girl shakes her head and laughs. I look at Henry. "Who is that?"

"That's Alba."

"Yes, but who's with her?"

Henry smiles, but his eyebrows pull together so
that the smile seems worried. "Clare, that's Alba when she's older. She's
time traveling."

"My God." I stare at the girl. She
swivels and points at the house, and I see a quick profile and then she turns
away again. "Should we go out there?"

"No, she's fine. If they want to come in
here they will."

"I'd love to meet her...."

"Better not—" Henry begins, but as he
speaks the two Albas jump up and come racing toward the back door, hand in
hand. They burst into the kitchen laughing. "Mama, Mama," says my
Alba, three-year-old Alba, pointing, "look! A big girl Alba!"

The other Alba grins and says, "Hi, Mama
" and I am smiling and I say, "Hello, Alba," when she turns and
sees Henry and cries out, "Daddy!" and runs to him, throws her arms
around him, and starts to cry. Henry glances at me, bends over Alba, rocking
her, and whispers something in her ear.

Henry: Clare is white-faced; she stands
watching us, holding small Alba's hand, Alba who stands watching open-mouthed
as her older self clings to me, weeping. I lean down to Alba, whisper in her
ear: " Don't tell Mama I died, okay?" She looks up at me, tears
clinging to her long lashes, lips quivering, and nods. Clare is holding a
tissue, telling Alba to blow her nose, hugging her. Alba allows herself to be
led off to wash her face. Small Alba, present Alba, wraps herself around my
leg. "Why, Daddy? Why is she sad?" Fortunately I don't have to answer
because Clare and Alba have returned; Alba is wearing one of Clare's T-shirts
and a pair of my cutoffs. Clare says, "Hey, everybody. Why don't we go get
an ice cream?" Both Albas smile; small Alba dances around us yelling
"I scream, you scream, I scream, you scream..." We pile into the car,
Clare driving, three-year-old Alba in the front seat and seven-year-old Alba in
the backseat with me. She leans against me; I put my arm around her. Nobody
says a word except little Alba, who says, "Look, Alba, a doggie! Look,
Alba, look, Alba..." until her older self says, "Yeah, Alba, I
see." Clare drives us to Zephyr; we settle into a blue glitter vinyl booth
and order two banana splits, a chocolate malt, and a soft-serve vanilla cone
with sprinkles, The girls suck down their banana splits like vacuum cleaners;
Clare and I toy with our ice cream, not looking at each other. Clare says,
"Alba, what's going on, in your present?"

Alba darts a look at me. "Not much,"
she says. "Gramps is teaching me Saint-Saens' second violin
concerto."

"You're in a play, at school," I
prompt.

"I am?" she says. "Not yet, I
guess."

"Oh, sorry," I say. "I guess
that's not till next year." It goes on like this. We make halting
conversation, working around what we know, what we must protect Clare and small
Alba from knowing. After a while older Alba puts her head in her arms on the
table. "Tired?" Clare asks her. She nods. "We'd better go,"
I tell Clare. We pay, and I pick Alba up; she's limp, almost asleep in my arms.
Clare scoops up little Alba, who's hyper from all the sugar. Back in the car,
as we're cruising up Lincoln Avenue, Alba vanishes. "She's gone back
" I say to Clare. She holds my eyes in the rearview mirror for a few
moments. "Back where, Daddy?" asks Alba. "Back where?"

Later:

Clare: I've finally managed to get Alba to take
a nap. Henry is sitting on our bed, drinking Scotch and staring out the window
at some squirrels chasing each other around the grape arbor. I walk over and
sit down next to him. "Hey" I say. Henry looks at me, puts his arm
around me, pulls me to him. "Hey" he says.

"Are you going to tell me what that was
all about?" I ask him. Henry puts down his drink and starts to undo the
buttons on my shirt. "Can I get away with not telling you?"
"No." I unbuckle his belt and open the button of his jeans. "Are
you sure?" He's kissing my neck.

"Yes." I slide his zipper down, run
my hand under his shirt, over his stomach.

"Because you don't really want to
know." Henry breathes into my ear and runs his tongue around the rim. I
shiver. He takes off my shirt, undoes the clasp of my bra. My breasts fall
loose and I lie back, watching Henry stripping off his jeans and underwear and
shirt. He climbs onto the bed and I say, "Socks."

"Oh, yeah." He takes off his socks.
We look at each other.

"You're just trying to distract me "
I say. Henry caresses my stomach. "I'm trying to distract myself. If I
also manage to distract you, that's a bonus." "You have to tell
me."

"No, I don't." He cups my breasts in
his hands, runs his thumbs over my nipples. "I'll imagine the worst."

"Go ahead." I raise my hips and Henry
pulls off my jeans and my underwear. He straddles me, leans over me, kisses me.
Oh, God, I think, what can it be? What is the worst? I close my eyes. A memory:
the Meadow, a cold day in my childhood, running over dead grass, there was a
noise, he called my name—

"Clare?" Henry is biting my lips,
gently. "Where are you?"

"1984."

Henry pauses and says, "Why?" "I
think that's where it happens." "Where what happens?"
"Whatever it is you're afraid to tell me."

Henry rolls off of me and we are lying side by
side. "Tell me about it," he says.

"It was early. A day in the fall. Daddy
and Mark were out deer hunting. I woke up; I thought I heard you calling me,
and I ran out into the meadow, and you were there, and you and Daddy and Mark
were all looking at something, but Daddy made me go back to the house, so I
never saw what you were looking at."

"Oh?"

"I went back there later in the day. There
was a place in the grass all soaked in blood."

Henry says nothing. He presses his lips
together. I wrap my arms around him, hold him tightly. I say, "The
worst—" "Hush, Clare."

"But—"

"Shh." Outside it is still a golden
afternoon. Inside we are cold, and we cling together for warmth. Alba, in her
bed, sleeps, and dreams of ice cream, dreams the small contented dreams of
three, while another Alba, somewhere in the future, dreams of wrapping her arms
around her father, and wakes up to find.. .what?

THE EPISODE OF
THE MONROE STREET PARKING GARAGE

Monday, January 7, 2006 (Clare is 34, Henry is
42)

Clare: We are sleeping deep early morning
winter sleep when the phone rings. I snap into wakefulness, my heart surging
and realize Henry is there beside me. He reaches over me and picks up the
phone. I glance at the clock; it's 4:32 a.m. '"Lo" says Henry. He
listens for a long minute. I am wide awake now. Henry is expressionless. "Okay.
Stay there. We'll leave right now." He leans over and replaces the
receiver.

"Who was it?"

"Me. It was me. I'm down in the Monroe
Street Parking Garage, no clothes, fifteen degrees below zero. God, I hope the
car starts."

We jump out of bed and throw on yesterday's
clothes. Henry is booted and has his coat on before I'm in my jeans and he runs
out to start the car. I stuff Henry's shirt and long underwear and jeans and
socks and boots and extra coat and mittens and a blanket into a shopping bag,
wake Alba and stuff her into her coat and boots, fly into my coat and out the
door. I pull out of the garage before the car is warmed up and it dies. I
restart it, we sit for a minute and I try again. It snowed six inches yesterday
and Ainslie is rutted with ice. Alba is whining in her car seat and Henry
shushes her. When we get to Lawrence I speed up and in ten minutes we are on
the Drive; there's no one out at this hour. The Honda's heater purrs. Over the
lake the sky is becoming lighter. Everything is blue and orange, brittle in the
extreme cold. As we sail down Lake Shore Drive I have a strong deja vu: the
cold, the lake in dreamy silence, the sodium glow of the streetlights: I've
been here before, been here before. I'm deeply enmeshed in this moment and it
stretches on, carrying me away from the strangeness of the thing into awareness
of the duplicity of now; although we are speeding through this winter cityscape
time stands immobile. We pass Irving, Belmont, Fullerton, LaSalle: I exit at
Michigan. We fly down the deserted corridor of expensive shops, Oak Street,
Chicago, Randolph, Monroe, and now we are diving down into the subterranean
concrete world of the parking garage. I take the ticket the ghostly female
machine voice offers me. "Drive to the northwest end," says Henry.
"The pay phone by the security station." I follow his instructions.
The deja vu is gone. I feel as though I've been abandoned by a protective
angel. The garage is virtually empty. I speed across acres of yellow lines to
the pay phone: the receiver dangles from its cord. No Henry.