The time traveler's wife (33 page)

"Care for a ride?"

"Sure." I am deeply moved by his
concern. Or his curiosity. Or whatever. We walk to his car, a Chevy Nova with
two bashed headlights. I climb into the passenger seat. Gomez gets in and slams
his door. He coaxes the little car into starting and we set off. The city is
gray and dingy and it's starting to rain. Fat drops smack the windshield as
crack houses and empty lots flow by us. Gomez turns on NPR and they're playing
Charles Mingus who sounds a little slow to me but then again why not? it's a
free country. Ashland Avenue is full of brain-jarring potholes but otherwise
things are fine, quite fine actually, my head is fluid and mobile, like liquid
mercury escaped from a broken thermometer, and it's all I can do to keep myself
from moaning with pleasure as the drug laps all my nerve endings with its tiny
chemical tongues. We pass ESP Psychic Card Reader, Pedro's Tire Outlet, Burger
King, Pizza Hut, and I am a Passenger runs through my head weaving its way into
the Mingus. Gomez says something which I don't catch and then again,

"Henry!"

"Yes?"

"What are you on?"

"I'm not quite sure. A science experiment,
of sorts."

"Why?"

"Stellar question. I'll get back to you on
that."

We don't say anything else until the car stops
in front of Clare and Charisse's apartment. I look at Gomez in confusion.

"You need company," he tells me
gently. I don't disagree. Gomez lets us in the front door and we walk upstairs.
Clare opens the door and when she sees me she looks upset, relieved, and
amused, all at once.

Clare: I have talked Henry into getting into my
bed, and Gomez and I are sitting in the living room drinking tea and eating
peanut butter and kiwi jelly sandwiches.

"Learn to cook, woman," intones
Gomez. He sounds like Charleton Heston handing down the Ten Commandments.

"One of these days." I stir sugar
into my tea. "Thank you for going and getting him."

"Anything for you, kitten." He starts
to roll a cigarette. Gomez is the only person I know who smokes during a meal.
I refrain from commenting. He lights up. He looks at me, and I brace myself.
"So, what was that little episode all about, hmm? Most of the people who
go to Compassionate Pharmacopoeia are AIDS victims or cancer patients."

"You know Ben?" I don't know why I'm
surprised. Gomez knows everybody.

"I know of Ben. My mom used to go to Ben
when she was having chemo."

"Oh." I review the situation,
searching for things I can safely mention.

"Whatever Ben gave him really put him in
the Slow Zone."

"We're trying to find something that will
help Henry stay in the present."

"He seems a little too inanimate for daily
use."

"Yeah." Maybe a lower dosage?

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Aiding and abetting Mr. Mayhem. Marrying
him, no less."

Henry calls my name. I get up. Gomez reaches
out and grabs my hand.

"Clare. Please—"

"Gomez. Let go." I stare him down.
After a long, awful moment he drops his eyes and lets me go. I hurry down the
hall into my room and shut the door. Henry is stretched out like a cat,
diagonally across the bed face down. I take off my shoes and stretch out beside
him.

"How's it going?" I ask him. Henry
rolls over and smiles. "Heaven." He strokes my face. "Care to
join me?" No. Henry sighs. "You are so good. I shouldn't be trying to
corrupt you."

"I'm not good. I'm afraid." We lie
together in silence for a long time. The sun is shining now, and it shows me my
bedroom in early afternoon: the curve of the walnut bed frame, the gold and
violet Oriental rug, the hairbrush and lipstick and bottle of hand lotion on
the bureau. A copy of Art in America with Leon Golub on the cover lies on the
seat of my old garage-sale armchair partially obscured by A Rebours. Henry is
wearing black socks. His long bony feet hang off the edge of the bed. He seems
thin to me. Henry's eyes are closed; perhaps he can feel me staring at him,
because he opens his eyes and smiles at me. His hair is falling into his face
and I brush it back. Henry takes my hand and kisses the palm. I unbutton his
jeans and slide my hand over his cock, but Henry shakes his head and takes my
hand and holds it.

"Sorry, Clare," he says softly.
"There's something in this stuff that seems to have short-circuited the
equipment. Later, maybe."

"That'll be fun on our wedding
night."

Henry shakes his head. "I can't take this
for the wedding. It's too much fun. I mean, Ben's a genius, but he's used to
working with people who are terminally ill. Whatever he's got in here, it plays
like a near-death experience." He sighs and sets the pill bottle on my
nightstand. "I should mail those to Ingrid. This is her perfect
drug." I hear the front door open and then it slams shut; Gomez leaving.

"You want something to eat?" I ask.

"No thanks."

"Is Ben going to make that other drug for
you?" "He's going to try," Henry says. "What if it's not
right?"

"You mean if Ben fucks up?"

"Yeah."

Henry says, "Whatever happens, we both
know that I live to be at least forty-three. So don't worry about it."
Forty-three? "What happens after forty-three?"

"I don't know, Clare. Maybe I figure out
how to stay in the present." He gathers me in and we are quiet. When I
wake up later it is dark and Henry is sleeping beside me. The little bottle of
pills shines red in the light °f the led display of the alarm clock.
Forty-three?

Monday, September 27, 1993 (Clare is 22, Henry
is 30)

Clare: I let myself into Henry's apartment and
turn on the lights. We're going to the opera tonight; it's The Ghosts of
Versailles. The Lyric Opera won't seat latecomers, so I'm flustered and at
first I don't realize that no lights means Henry isn't here. Then I do realize
it, and I'm annoyed because he's going to make us late. Then I wonder if he's
gone. Then I hear someone breathing. I stand still. The breathing is coming
from the kitchen, I run into the kitchen and turn on the light and Henry is
lying on the floor, fully clothed, in a strange, rigid pose, staring straight
ahead. As I stand there he makes a low sound, not like a human sound, a groan
that clatters in his throat, that tears through his clenched teeth.

"Oh, God, oh, God." I call 911. The
operator assures me they'll be here in minutes. And as I sit on the kitchen
floor staring at Henry I feel a wave of anger and I find Henry's Rolodex in his
desk and I dial the number.

"Hello?" The voice is tiny and
distant.

"Is this Ben Matteson?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Clare Abshire. Listen, Ben, Henry is
lying on the floor totally rigid and can't talk. What the fuck?"
"What? Shit! Call 911!"

"I did—"

"The drug is mimicking Parkinson's, he
needs dopamine! Tell them— shit, call me from the hospital—" "They're
here—"

"Okay! Call me—" I hang up, and face
the paramedics. Later, after the ambulance ride to Mercy Hospital, after Henry
has been admitted, injected, and intubated and is lying in a hospital bed
attached to a monitor, relaxed and sleeping, I look up and see a tall gaunt man
in the doorway of Henry's room, and I remember that I have forgotten to call
Ben. He walks in and stands across from me on the other side of the bed. The
room is dark and the light from the hallway silhouettes Ben as he bows his head
and says, "I'm so sorry. So sorry."

I reach across the bed, take his hands.
"It's okay. He's going to be fine. Really" Ben shakes his head.
"It's completely my fault. I should never have made it for him."
"What happened?"

Ben sighs and sits down in the chair. I sit on
the bed. "It could be several things," he says. "It could be
just a side effect, could happen to anybody. But it could be that Henry didn't
have the recipe quite right. I mean, it's a lot to memorize. And I couldn't check
it."

We are both silent. Henry's monitor drips fluid
into his arm. An orderly walks by with a cart. Finally I say, "Ben?"

"Yes, Clare?"

"Do something for me?"
"Anything."

"Cut him off. No more drugs. Drugs aren't
going to work." Ben grins at me, relieved. "Just say no."

"Exactly." We laugh. Ben sits with me
for a while. When he gets up to leave, he takes my hand and says, "Thank
you for being kind about it. He could easily have died."

"But he didn't."

"No, he didn't."

"See you at the wedding."

"Yes." We are standing in the hall.
In the glaring fluorescent light Ben looks tired and ill. He ducks his head and
turns, and walks down the hall, and I turn back to the dim room where Henry
lies sleeping.

TURNING POINT

Friday, October 22, 1993 (Henry is 30)

Henry: I am strolling down Linden Street, in
South Haven, at large for an hour while Clare and her mother do something at
the florist's. The wedding is tomorrow, but as the groom I don't seem to have
too many responsibilities. Be there; that's the main item on my To Do list.
Clare is constantly being whisked away to fittings, consultations, bridal
showers. When I do see her she always looks rather wistful. It's a clear cold
day, and I dawdle. I wish South Haven had a decent bookstore. Even the library
consists mainly of Barbara Cartland and John Grisham. I have the Penguin
edition of Kleist with me, but I'm not in the mood. I pass an antiques shop, a
bakery, a bank, another antiques shop. As I walk by the barber shop I peer in;
there's an old man being shaved by a dapper little balding barber, and I know
at once what I'm going to do. Little bells clang against the door as I walk
into the shop. It smells of soap, steam, hair lotion, and elderly flesh.
Everything is pale green. The chair is old and ornate with chrome, and there
are elaborate bottles lining dark wooden shelves, and trays of scissors, combs,
and razors. It's almost medical; it's very Norman Rockwell. The barber glances
up at me. "Haircut?" I ask. He nods at the row of empty
straight-backed chairs with magazines neatly stacked on a rack at one end of
the row. Sinatra is playing on the radio. I sit down and leaf through a copy of
Reader's Digest. The barber wipes traces of lather from the old man's chin, and
applies aftershave. The old man climbs gingerly from the chair and pays up. The
barber helps him into his coat and hands him his cane. "See you,
George," says the old man as he creeps out. '"Bye, Ed," replies
the barber. He turns his attention to me. "What'll it be?" I hop into
the chair and he steps me up a few inches and swivels me around to face the
mirror. I take a long last look at my hair. I hold my thumb and forefinger
about an inch apart. "Cut it all off." He nods his approval and ties
a plastic cape around my neck. Soon his scissors are flashing little metal on
metal noises around my head, and my hair is falling to the floor. When he is
done he brushes me off and removes the cape and voila, I've become the me of my
future.

GET ME TO THE
CHURCH ON TIME

Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare
is 22) (6:00 a.m.)

Henry: I wake up at 6:00 a.m. and it's raining.
I am in a snug little green room under the eaves in a cozy little
bed-and-breakfast called Blake's, which is right on the south beach in South
Haven. Clare's parents have chosen this place; my dad is sleeping in an equally
cozy pink room downstairs, next to Mrs. Kim in a lovely yellow room; Grandpa
and Grams are in the uber-cozy blue master bedroom. I lie in the extra-soft bed
under Laura Ashley sheets, and I can hear the wind flinging itself against the
house. The rain is pouring down in sheets. I wonder if I can run in this
monsoon. I hear it coursing through the gutters and drumming on the roof, which
is about two feet above my face. This room is like a garret. It has a delicate
little writing desk, in case I need to pen any ladylike missives on my wedding
day. There's a china ewer and basin on the bureau; if I actually wanted to use
them I'd probably have to break the ice on the water first, because it's quite
cold up here. I feel like a pink worm in the core of this green room, as though
I have eaten my way in and should be working on becoming a butterfly, or
something. I'm not real awake, here, at the moment. I hear somebody coughing. I
hear my heart beating and the high-pitched sound which is my nervous system
doing its thing. Oh, God, let today be a normal day. Let me be normally
befuddled, normally nervous; get me to the church on time, in time. Let me not
startle anyone, especially myself. Let me get through our wedding day as best I
can, with no special effects. Deliver Clare from unpleasant scenes. Amen.