The time traveler's wife (18 page)

Gomez says, "You were out of town."

Charisse pouts. "I miss everything,"
she says to me. "I missed Patti Smith and now she's retired. I missed
Talking Heads the last time they toured."

"Patti Smith will tour again" I say.

"She will? How do you know?" asks
Charisse. Clare and I exchange glances.

"I'm just guessing" I tell her. We
begin exploring each other's musical tastes and discover that we are all
devoted to punk. Gomez tells us about seeing the New York Dolls in Florida just
before Johnny Thunders left the band. I describe a Lene Lovich concert I
managed to catch on one of my time travels. Charisse and Clare are excited
because the Violent Femmes are playing the Aragon Ballroom in a few weeks and
Charisse has scored free tickets. The evening winds down without further ado.
Clare walks me downstairs. We stand in the foyer between the outer door and the
inner door.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Oh, not at all. It was fun, I didn't mind
cooking." "No," Clare says, looking at her shoes, "about
Gomez."

It's cold in the foyer. I wrap my arms around
Clare and she leans against me. "What about Gomez?" I ask her.
Something's on her mind. But then she shrugs. "It'll be okay," she
says, and I take her word for it. We kiss. I open the outer door, and Clare
opens the inner door; I walk down the sidewalk and look back. Clare is still
standing there in the half-open doorway watching me. I stand, wanting to go
back and hold her, wanting to go back upstairs with her. She turns and begins
to walk upstairs, and I watch until she is out of sight.

Saturday, December 14, 1991 Tuesday, May 9,
2000 (Henry is 36)

Henry: I'm stomping the living shit out of a
large drunk suburban guy who had the effrontery to call me a faggot and then
tried to beat me up to prove his point. We are in the alley next to the Vic
Theater. I can hear the Smoking Popes' bass leaking out of the theater's side
exits as I systematically smash this idiot's nose and go to work on his ribs.
I'm having a rotten evening, and this fool is taking the brunt of my
frustration.

"Hey, Library Boy." I turn from my
groaning homophobic yuppie to find Gomez leaning against a dumpster, looking grim.

"Comrade." I step back from the guy
I've been bashing, who slides gratefully to the pavement, doubled up. "How
goes it?" I'm very relieved to see Gomez: delighted, actually. But he
doesn't seem to share my pleasure.

"Gee, ah, I don't want to disturb you or
anything, but that's a friend of mine you're dismembering, there."

Oh, surely not. "Well, he requested it.
Just walked right up to me and said, 'Sir, I urgently need to be firmly
macerated.'"

"Oh. Well, hey, well done. Fucking
artistic, actually." "Thank you."

"Do you mind if I just scoop up ol' Nick
here and take him to the hospital?"

"Be my guest." Damn. I was planning
to appropriate Nick's clothing, especially his shoes, brand new Doc Martens,
deep red, barely worn. "Gomez."

"Yeah?" He stoops to lift his friend,
who spits a tooth into his own lap.

"What's the date?"

"December 14." "What year?"

He looks up at me like a man who has better
things to do than humor lunatics and lifts Nick in a fireman's carry that must
be excruciating. Nick begins to whimper. "1991. You must be drunker than
you look." He walks up the alley and disappears in the direction of the
theater entrance. I calculate rapidly. Today is not that long after Clare and I
started dating, therefore Gomez and I hardly know each other. No wonder he was
giving me the hairy eyeball. He reappears unencumbered. "I made Trent deal
with it. Nick's his brother. He wasn't best pleased." We start walking
east, down the alley. "Forgive me for asking, dear Library Boy, but why on
earth are you dressed like that?"

I'm wearing blue jeans, a baby blue sweater
with little yellow ducks all over it, and a neon red down vest with pink tennis
shoes. Really, it's not surprising that someone would feel they needed to hit
me.

"It was the best I could do at the time."
I hope the guy I took these off of was close to home. It's about twenty degrees
out here. "Why are you consorting with frat boys?"

"Oh, we went to law school together."
We are walking by the back door of the Army-Navy surplus store and I experience
a deep desire to be wearing normal clothing. I decide to risk appalling Gomez;
I know he'll get over it. I stop. "Comrade. This will only take a moment;
I just need to take care of something. Could you wait at the end of the
alley?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no
attention to the man behind the curtain." "Mind if I come
along?"

"Yes." He looks crestfallen.
"All right. If you must." I step into the niche which shelters the
back door. This is the third time I've broken into this place, although the
other two occasions are both in the future at the moment. I've got it down to a
science. First I open the insignificant combination lock that secures the
security grate, slide the grate back, pick the Yale lock with the inside of an
old pen and a safety pin found earlier on Belmont Avenue, and use a piece of
aluminum between the double doors to lift the inside bolt. Voila! Altogether,
it takes about three minutes. Gomez regards me with almost religious awe.

" Where did you learn to do that?"

"It's a knack," I reply modestly. We
step inside. There is a panel of blinking red lights trying to look like a
burglar alarm system, but I know better. It's very dark in here. I mentally
review the layout and the merchandise. "Don't touch anything, Gomez."
I want to be warm, and inconspicuous. I step carefully through the aisles, and
my eyes adjust to the dark. I start with pants: black Levi's. I select a dark
blue flannel shirt, a heavy black wool overcoat with an industrial-strength
lining, wool socks, boxers, heavy mountain-climb ing gloves, and a hat with ear
flaps. In the shoe department I find, to my great satisfaction, Docs exactly
like the ones my buddy Nick was wearing. I am ready for action. Gomez,
meanwhile, is poking around behind the counter. "Don't bother," I
tell him. "This place doesn't leave cash in the register at night. Let's
go." We leave the way we came. I close the door gently and pull the grate
across. I have my previous set of clothing in a shopping bag. Later I will try
to find a Salvation Army collection bin. Gomez looks at me expectantly, like a
large dog who's waiting to see if I have any more lunch meat. Which reminds me.
"I'm ravenous. Let's go to Ann Sather's."

"Ann Sather's? I was expecting you to
propose bank robbery, or manslaughter, at the very least. You're on a roll,
man, don't stop now!"

"I must pause in my labors to refuel. Come
on." We cross from the alley to Ann Sather's Swedish Restaurant's parking
lot. The attendant mutely regards us as we traverse his kingdom. We cut over to
Belmont. It's only nine o'clock, and the street is teeming with its usual mix
of runaways, homeless mental cases, clubbers, and suburban thrill seekers. Ann
Sather's stands out as an island of normalcy amid the tattoo parlors and condom
boutiques. We enter, and wait by the bakery to be seated. My stomach gurgles.
The Swedish decor is comforting, all wood paneling and swirling red marbling.
We are seated in the smoking section, right in front of the fireplace. Things
are looking up. We remove our coats, settle in, read the menus, even though, as
lifelong Chicagoans, we could probably sing them from memory in two-part
harmony. Gomez lays all his smoking paraphernalia next to his silverware.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes. But go ahead." The price of
Gomez's company is marinating in the constant stream of cigarette smoke that
flows from his nostrils. His fingers are a deep ochre color; they flutter
delicately over the thin papers as he rolls Drum tobacco into a thick cylinder,
licks the paper, twists it, sticks it between his lips, and lights it.
"Ahh." For Gomez, a half hour without a smoke is an anomaly. I always
enjoy watching people satisfy their appetites, even if I don't happen to share
them.

"You don't smoke? Anything?"

"I run."

"Oh. Yeah, shit, you're in great shape. I
thought you had about killed Nick, and you weren't even winded." "He
was too drunk to fight. Just a big sodden punching bag." "Why'd you
lay into him like that?"

"It was just stupidity." The waiter
arrives, tells us his name is Lance and the specials are salmon and creamed
peas. He takes our drink orders and speeds away. I toy with the cream
dispenser. "He saw how I was dressed, concluded that I was easy meat, got
obnoxious, wanted to beat me up, wouldn't take no for an answer, and got a surprise.
I was minding my own business, really I was."

Gomez looks thoughtful. "Which is what,
exactly?"

"Pardon?"

"Henry. I may look like a chump, but in
fact your old Uncle Gomez is not completely sans clues. I have been paying
attention to you for some time: before our little Clare brought you home, as a
matter of fact. I mean, I don't know if you are aware of it, but you are
moderately notorious in certain circles. I know a lot of people who know you.
People; well, women. Women who know you " He squints at me through the
haze of his smoke. "They say some pretty strange things." Lance
arrives with my coffee and Gomez's milk. We order: a cheeseburger and fries for
Gomez, split pea soup, the salmon, sweet potatoes, and mixed fruit for me. I
feel like I'm going to keel over right this minute if I don't get a lot of
calories fast. Lance departs swiftly. I'm having trouble caring very much about
the misdeeds of my earlier self, much less justifying them to Gomez. None of
his business, anyway. But he's waiting for my answer. I stir cream into my
coffee, watching the slight white scum on the top dissipate in swirls. I throw
caution to the winds. It doesn't matter, after all.

"What would you like to know,
comrade?"

"Everything. I want to know why a
seemingly mild-mannered librarian beats a guy into a coma over nothing while
wearing kindergarten-teacher clothing. I want to know why Ingrid Carmichel
tried to kill herself eight days ago. I want to know why you look ten years
older right now than you did the last time I saw you. Your hair's going gray. I
want to know why you can pick a Yale lock. I want to know why Clare had a photograph
of you before she actually met you."

Clare had a photo of me before 1991 ? I didn't
know that. Oops. "What did the photo look like?"

Gomez regards me. "More like you look at
the moment, not like you looked a couple weeks ago when you came over for dinner."
That was two weeks ago? Lord, this is only the second time Gomez and I have
met. "It was taken outdoors. You're smiling. The date on the back is June,
1988." The food arrives, and we pause to arrange it on our little table. I
start eating as though there's no tomorrow. Gomez sits, watching me eating, his
food untouched. I've seen Gomez do his thing in court with hostile witnesses,
just like this. He simply wills them to spill the beans. I don't mind telling
all, I just want to eat first. In fact, I need Gomez to know the truth, because
he's going to save my ass repeatedly in the years to come. I'm halfway through
the salmon and he's still sitting. "Eat, eat," I say in my best
imitation of Mrs. Kim. He dips a fry in ketchup and munches it. "Don't
worry, I'll confess. Just let me have my last meal in peace." He
capitulates, and starts to eat his burger. Neither of us says a word until I've
finished consuming my fruit. Lance brings me more coffee. I doctor it, stir it.
Gomez is looking at me as though he wants to shake me. I resolve to amuse
myself at his expense.

"Okay. Here it is: time travel."

Gomez rolls his eyes and grimaces, but says
nothing.

"I am a time traveler. At the moment I am
thirty-six years old. This afternoon was May 9, 2000. It was a Tuesday. I was
at work, I had just finished a Show and Tell for a bunch of Caxton Club members
and I had gone back to the stacks to reshelve the books when I suddenly found
myself on School Street, in 1991.1 had the usual problem of getting something
to wear. I hid under somebody's porch for a while. I was cold, and nobody was
coming along, and finally this young guy, dressed—well, you saw how I was
dressed. I mugged him, took his cash and everything he was wearing except his
underwear. Scared him silly; I think he thought I was going to rape him or
something. Anyway, I had clothes. Okay. But in this neighborhood you can't
dress like that without having certain misunderstandings arise. So I've been
taking shit all evening from various people, and your friend just happened to
be the last straw. I'm sorry if he's very damaged. I very much wanted his
clothes, especially his shoes." Gomez glances under the table at my feet.
"I find myself in situations like that all the time. No pun intended.
There's something wrong with me. I get dislocated in time, for no reason. I
can't control it, I never know when it's going to happen, or where and when
I'll end up. So in order to cope, I pick locks, shoplift, pick pockets, mug
people, panhandle, break and enter, steal cars, lie, fold, spindle, and
mutilate. You name it, I've done it."

"Murder."

"Well, not that I know of. I've never
raped anybody, either." I look at him as I speak. He's poker-faced.
"Ingrid. Do you actually know Ingrid?"