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 an
d 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."
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.
The Time Traveler's Wife Page 22