The time traveler's wife (28 page)

"Yes. I would stop." I glance at Clare,
dim in the dark car.

"It would be funny" she says, "I
would have all these memories that you would never get to have. It would be
like— well, it is like being with somebody who has amnesia. I've been feeling
that way ever since we got here."

I laugh. "So in the future you can watch
me lurch along into each memory, until I've got the complete set. Collect 'em
all."

She smiles. "I guess so." Clare pulls
into the circular driveway in front of the house. "Home sweet home."

Later, after we have crept upstairs into our
separate rooms and I have put on pajamas and brushed my teeth and sneaked into
Clare's room and remembered to lock the door this time and we are warm in her
narrow bed, she whispers, "I wouldn't want you to miss it."

"Miss what?"

"All the things that happened. When I was
a kid. I mean, so far they have only halfway happened, because you aren't there
yet. So when they happen to you, then it's real."

"I'm on my way." I run my hand over
her belly, and down between her legs. Clare squeals.

"Shhh."

"Your hand is icy."

"Sorry." We fuck carefully, silently.
When I finally come it's so intense that I get a horrible headache, and for a
minute I'm afraid I'm going to disappear, but I don't. Instead I lie in Clare's
arms, cross-eyed with pain. Clare snores, quiet animal snores that feel like
bulldozers running through my head. I want my own bed, in my own apartment.
Home sweet home. No place like home. Take me home, country roads. Home is where
the heart is. But my heart is here. So I must be home. Clare sighs, turns her
head, and is quiet. Hi, honey, I'm home. I'm home. Clare: It's a clear, cold
morning. Breakfast has been eaten. The car is packed. Mark and Sharon have
already left with Daddy for the airport in Kalamazoo. Henry is in the hall
saying goodbye to Alicia; I run upstairs to Mama's room.

"Oh, is it so late?" she asks when
she sees me wearing my coat and boots. "I thought you were staying to
lunch." Mama is sitting at her desk, which as always is covered with
pieces of paper which are covered with her extravagant handwriting.

"What are you working on?" Whatever
it is, it's full of scratched-out words and doodles. Mama turns the page face
down. She's very secretive about her writing. "Nothing. It's a poem about
the garden under the snow. It isn't coming out well at all." Mama stands
up, walks to the window. "Funny how poems are never as nice as the real
garden. My poems, anyway."

I can't really comment on this because Mama has
never let me read one of her poems, so I say, "Well, the garden is
beautiful," and she waves the compliment away. Praise means nothing to
Mama, she doesn't believe it. Only criticism can flush her cheeks and catch her
attention. If I were to say something disparaging she would remember it always.
There is an awkward pause. I realize that she is waiting for me to leave so she
can go back to her writing.

"Bye, Mama," I say. I kiss her cool
face, and escape.

Henry: We've been on the road for about an
hour. For miles the highway was bordered by pine trees; now we are in flat land
full of barbed-wire fences. Neither of us has spoken in a while. As soon as I
notice it the silence is strange, and so I say something.

"That wasn't so bad." My voice is too
cheerful, too loud in the small car. Clare doesn't answer, and I look over at
her. She's crying; tears are running down her cheeks as she drives, pretending
that she's not crying. I've never seen Clare cry before, and something about
her silent stoic tears unnerves me. "Clare. Clare, maybe—could you maybe
pull over for a minute?" Without looking at me, she slows down and drives
onto the shoulder, stops. We are somewhere in Indiana. The sky is blue and
there are many crows in the field at the side of the road. Clare leans her
forehead against the steering wheel and takes a long ragged breath.

"Clare." I'm talking to the back of
her head. "Clare, I'm sorry. Was it— did I fuck up somehow? What happened?
I—"

"It's not you," she says under her
veil of hair. We sit like this for minutes.

"What's wrong, then?" Clare shakes
her head, and I sit and stare at her. Finally I gather enough courage to touch
her. I stroke her hair, feeling the bones of her neck and spine through the
thick shimmering waves. She turns and I'm holding her awkwardly across the
divided seats and now Clare is crying hard, shuddering. Then she's quiet. Then
she says, "God damn Mama."

Later we are sitting in a traffic jam on the
Dan Ryan Expressway, listening to Irma Thomas. "Henry? Was it—did you mind
very much?"

"Mind what?" I ask, thinking about
Clare crying. But she says, "My family? Are they—did they seem—?"

"They were fine, Clare. I really liked
them. Especially Alicia."

"Sometimes I just want to push them all
into Lake Michigan and watch them sink."

"Um, I know the feeling. Hey, I think your
dad and your brother have seen me before. And Alicia said something really
strange just as we were leaving."

"I saw you with Dad and Mark once. And
Alicia definitely saw you in the basement one day when she was twelve."

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"No, because the explanation is too weird
to be believed." We both laugh, and the tension that has ridden with us
all the way to Chicago dissipates. Traffic begins to accelerate. Soon Clare
stops in front of my apartment building. I take my bag from the trunk, and I
watch as Clare pulls away and glides down Dearborn, and my throat closes up.
Hours later I identify what I am feeling as loneliness, and Christmas is
officially over for another year.

HOME IS
ANYWHERE YOU HANG YOUR HEAD

Saturday, May 9, 1992 (Henry is 28)

Henry: I've decided that the best strategy is
to just ask straight out; either he says yes or no. I take the Ravenswood El to
Dad's apartment, the home of my youth. I haven't been here much lately; Dad
seldom invites me over and I'm not given to showing up unannounced, the way I'm
about to do. But if he won't answer his phone, what does he expect? I get off
at Western and walk west on Lawrence. The two-flat is on Virginia; the back
porch looks over the Chicago River. As I stand in the foyer fumbling for my key
Mrs. Kim peeps out of her door and furtively gestures for me to step in. I am
alarmed; Kimy is usually very hearty and loud and affectionate, and although
she knows everything there is to know about us she never interferes. Well,
almost never. Actually, she gets pretty involved in our lives, but we like it.
I sense that she is really upset.

"You like a Coke?" She's already
marching toward her kitchen.

"Sure." I set my backpack by the
front door and follow her. In the kitchen she cracks the metal lever of an
old-fashioned ice cube tray. I always marvel at Kimy's strength. She must be
seventy and to me she seems exactly the same as when I was little. I spent a
lot of time down here, helping her make dinner for Mr. Kim (who died five years
ago), reading, doing homework, and watching TV. I sit at the kitchen table and
she sets a glass of Coke brimming with ice before me. She has a half-consumed
cup of instant coffee in one of the bone china cups with hummingbirds painted
around the rim. I remember the first time she allowed me to drink coffee out of
one of those cups; I was thirteen. I felt like a grown-up.

"Long time no see, buddy."

Ouch. "I know. I'm sorry.. .time has been
moving kind of fast, lately."

She appraises me. Kimy has piercing black eyes,
which seem to see the very back of my brain. Her flat Korean face conceals all
emotion unless she wants you to see it. She is a fantastic bridge player.

"You been time traveling?"

"No. In fact, I haven't been anywhere for
months. It's been great." "You got a girlfriend?" I grin.

"Ho ho. Okay, I know all about it. What's
her name? How come you don't bring her around?"

"Her name is Clare. I have offered to
bring her around several times and he always turns me down."

"You don't offer to me. You come here,
Richard will come, too. We'll have duck almondine."

As usual I am impressed with my own obtusity.
Mrs. Kim knows the perfect way to dissolve all social difficulties. My dad
feels no compunction about being a jerk to me, but he will always make an
effort for Mrs. Kim, as well he should, since she pretty much raised his child
and probably isn't charging him market rent.

"You're a genius."

"Yes, I am. How come I don't get a
MacArthur grant? I ask you?"

"Dunno. Maybe you're not getting out of
the house enough. I don't think the MacArthur people are hanging out at Bingo
World."

"No, they already got enough money. So
when you getting married?"

Coke comes up my nose, I'm laughing so hard.
Kimy lurches up and starts thumping me on the back. I subside, and she sits
back down, grumpily. "What's so funny? I'm just asking. I get to ask,
huh?"

"No, that's not it—I mean, I'm not
laughing because it's ludicrous, I'm laughing because you are reading my mind.
I came over to ask Dad to let me have Mom's rings."

"Ohhhhh. Boy, I don't know. Wow, you're
getting married. Hey! That's great! She gonna say yes?"

"I think so. I'm ninety-nine percent
sure."

"Well, that's pretty good, I don't know
about your mom's rings, though. See, what I want to tell you—" her eyes
glance at the ceiling "your dad, he's not doing too good. He's yelling a
lot, and throwing stuff, and he's not practicing."

"Oh. Well, that's not totally surprising.
But it's not good. You been up there, lately?" Kimy is ordinarily in Dad's
apartment a lot. I think she surreptitiously cleans it. I've seen her defiantly
ironing Dad's tux shirts, daring me to comment.

"He won't let me in!" She's on the
verge of tears. This is very bad. My dad certainly has his problems, but it is
monstrous of him to let them affect Kimy.

"But when he's not there?" Usually I pretend
not to know that Kimy is in and out of Dad's apartment without his knowledge;
she pretends that she would never do such a thing. But actually I'm
appreciative, now that I no longer live here. Someone has to keep an eye on
him. She looks guilty, and crafty, and slightly alarmed that I am mentioning
this. "Okay. Yeah, I go in once, 'cause I worry about him. He's got trash
everywhere; we're gonna get bugs if he keep this up. He's got nothing in that
fridge but beer and lemons. He's got so much clothes on the bed I don't think
he sleeps in it. I don't know what he's doing. I never seen him this bad since
when your mom died."

"Oh boy. What do you think?" There's
a big crash above our heads, which means Dad has dropped something on the
kitchen floor. He's probably just getting up. "I guess I'd better go up
there "

"Yeah." Kimy is wistful. "He's
such a nice guy, your dad; I don't know why he lets it get like this."

"He's an alcoholic. That's what alcoholics
do. It's in their job description: Fall apart, and then keep falling
apart."

She levels her devastating gaze at me.
"Speaking of jobs..."

"Yes?" Oh shit.

"I don't think he's been working."

"Well, it's the off-season. He doesn't
work in May."

"They are touring Europe and he's here.
Also, he don't pay rent last two months."

Damn damn damn. "Kimy, why didn't you call
me? That's awful. Geez." I am on my feet and down the hall; I grab my
backpack and return to the kitchen. I delve around in it and find my checkbook.
"How much does he owe you?"

Mrs. Kim is deeply embarrassed. "No,
Henry, don't—he'll pay it."

"He can pay me back. C'mon, buddy, it's
okay. Cough it out, now, how much?"

She's not looking at me. "$1,200.00,"
she says in a small voice.

"That's all? What are you doing, buddy,
running the Philanthropic Society for the Support of Wayward DeTambles?" I
write the check and stick it under her saucer. "You better cash that or
I'll come looking for you."

"Well, then I won't cash it and you will
have to visit me."

"I'll visit you anyway." I am utterly
guilt stricken. "I will bring Clare."

Kimy beams at me. "I hope so. I'm gonna be
your maid of honor, right?"

"If Dad doesn't shape up you can give me
away. Actually, that's a great idea: you can walk me down the aisle, and Clare
will be waiting in her tux, and the organist will be playing
Lohengrin...."

"I better buy a dress."

"Yow. Don't buy any dresses until I tell
you it's a done deal." I sigh. "I guess I better go up there and talk
to him." I stand up. In Mrs. Kim's kitchen I feel enormous, suddenly, as
though I'm visiting my old grammar school and marveling over the size of the
desks. She stands slowly and follows me to the front door. I hug her. For a
moment she seems fragile and lost, and I wonder about her life, the telescoping
days of cleaning and gardening and bridge playing, but then my own concerns
crash back in again. I will come back soon; I can't spend my entire life hiding
in bed with Clare. Kimy watches as I open Dad's door.