The time traveler's wife (37 page)

I sigh. "Yeah. It will. God. I wish you
could videotape some of your excursions. I would love to see this place.
Couldn't you have looked at the address, while you were at it?"

"Sorry. It was just a quickie."

Sometimes I would give anything to open up
Henry's brain and look at his memory like a movie. I remember when I first
learned to use a computer; I was fourteen and Mark was trying to teach me to
draw on his Macintosh. After about ten minutes I wanted to push my hands
through the screen and get at the real thing in there, whatever it was. I like
to do things directly, touch the textures, see the colors. House shopping with
Henry is making me crazy. It's like driving one of those awful toy remote
control cars. I always drive them into walls. On purpose.

"Henry. Would you mind if I went house
hunting by myself for a while?"

"No, I guess not." He seems a little
hurt. "If you really want to."

"Well, we're going to end up in this place
anyway, right? I mean, it won't change anything." "True. Yeah, don't
mind me. But try not to fall for any more hellholes, okay?"

I finally find it about a month and twenty or
so houses later. It's on Ainslie, in Lincoln Square, a red brick bungalow built
in 1926. Carol pops open the key box and wrestles with the lock, and as the
door opens I have an overwhelming sensation of something fitting... I walk
right through to the back window, peer out at the backyard, and there's my
future studio, and there's the grape arbor and as I turn around Carol looks at
me inquisitively and I say, "We'll buy it."

She is more than a bit surprised. "Don't
you want to see the rest of the house? What about your husband?"

"Oh, he's already seen it. But yeah, sure,
let's see the house."

Saturday, July 9, 1994 (Henry is 31, Clare is
23)

Henry: Today was Moving Day. All day it was
hot; the movers' shirts stuck to them as they walked up the stairs of our
apartment this morning, smiling because they figured a two-bedroom apartment
would be no big deal and they'd be done before lunch time. Their smiles fell when
they stood in our living room and saw Clare's heavy Victorian furniture and my
seventy-eight boxes of books. Now it's dark and Clare and I are wandering
through the house, touching the walls, running our hands over the cherry
windowsills. Our bare feet slap the wood floors. We run water into the
claw-footed bathtub, turn the burners of the heavy Universal stove on and off.
The windows are naked; we leave the lights off and street light pours over the
empty fireplace through dusty glass. Clare moves from room to room, caressing
her house, our house. I follow her, watching as she opens closets, windows,
cabinets. She stands on tiptoe in the dining room, touches the etched-glass
light fixture with a fingertip. Then she takes off her shirt. I run my tongue
over her breasts. The house envelops us, watches us, contemplates us as we make
love in it for the first time, the first of many times, and afterward, as we
lie spent on the bare floor surrounded by boxes, I feel that we have found our
home.

Sunday, August 28, 1994 (Clare is 23, Henry is
31)

Clare: It's a humid sticky hot Sunday
afternoon, and Henry, Gomez, and I are at large in Evanston. We spent the
morning at Lighthouse Beach, playing in Lake Michigan and roasting ourselves.
Gomez wanted to be buried in the sand, so Henry and I obliged. We ate our
picnic, and napped. Now we are walking down the shady side of Church Street,
licking Orangsicles, groggy with sun.

"Clare, your hair is full of sand,"
says Henry. I stop and lean over and beat my hair like a carpet with my hand. A
whole beach falls out of it.

"My ears are full of sand. And my
unmentionables " Gomez says.

"I'll be glad to whack you in the head,
but you will have to do the rest yourself," I say. A small breeze blows up
and we hold our bodies out to it. I coil my hair onto the top of my head and
immediately feel better.

"What shall we do next?" Gomez
inquires. Henry and I exchange glances.

"Bookman's Alley" we chant in unison.
Gomez groans. "Oh, God. Not a bookstore. Lord, Lady, have mercy on your
humble servant—"

"Bookman's Alley it is, then " Henry
says blithely.

"Just promise me we won't spend more than,
oh, say, three hours..."

"I think they close at five" I tell
him, "and it's already 2:30."

"You could go have a beer," says
Henry.

"I thought Evanston was dry."

"No, I think they changed it. If you can
prove you're not a member of the YMCA you can have a beer."

"I'll come with you. All for one and one
for all." We turn onto Sherman, walk past what used to be Marshall Field's
and is now a sneaker outlet store, past what used to be the Varsity Theater and
is now a Gap. We turn into the alley that runs between the florist's and the
shoe repair shop and lo and behold, it's Bookman's Alley. I push the door open
and we troop into the dim cool shop as though we are tumbling into the past.
Roger is sitting behind his little untidy desk chatting with a ruddy
white-haired gentleman about something to do with chamber music. He smiles when
he sees us. "Clare, I've got something you will like," he says. Henry
makes a beeline for the back of the store where all the printing and
bibliophilic stuff is. Gomez meanders around looking at the weird little
objects that are tucked into the various sections: a saddle in Westerns, a
deerstalker's cap in Mysteries. He takes a gumdrop from the immense bowl in the
Children's section, not realizing that those gumdrops have been there for years
and you can hurt yourself on them. The book Roger has for me is a Dutch catalog
of decorative papers with real sample papers tipped in. I can see immediately
that it's a find, so I lay it on the table by the desk, to start the pile of
things I want. Then I begin to peruse the shelves dreamily, inhaling the deep
dusty smell of paper, glue, old carpets and wood. I see Henry sitting on the floor
in the Art section with something open on his lap. He's sunburned, and his hair
stands up every which way. I'm glad he cut it. He looks more like himself to me
now, with the short hair. As I watch him he puts his hand up to twirl a piece
of it around his finger, realizes it's too short to do that, and scratches his
ear. I want to touch him, run my hands through his funny sticking-up hair, but
I turn and burrow into the Travel section instead.

Henry: Clare is standing in the main room by a
huge stack of new arrivals. Roger doesn't really like people fiddling with
unpriced stuff, but I've noticed that he'll let Clare do pretty much whatever
she wants in his store. She has her head bent over a small red book. Her hair
is trying to escape from the coil on her head, and one strap of her sundress is
hanging off her shoulder, exposing a bit of her bathing suit. This is so
poignant, so powerful, that I urgently need to walk over to her, touch her,
possibly, if no one is looking, bite her, but at the same time I don't want
this moment to end, and suddenly I notice Gomez, who is standing in the Mystery
section looking at Clare with an expression that so exactly mirrors my own
feelings that I am forced to see—. At this moment, Clare looks up at me and
says, "Henry, look, it's Pompeii." She holds out the tiny book of
picture postcards, and something in her voice says, See, I have chosen you. I
walk to her, put my arm around her shoulders, straighten the fallen strap. When
I look up a second later, Gomez has turned his back on us and is intently
surveying the Agatha Christies.

Sunday, January 15, 1995 (Clare is 23, Henry is
31)

Clare: I am washing dishes and Henry is dicing
green peppers. The sun is setting very pinkly over the January snow in our
backyard on this early Sunday evening, and we are making chili and singing
Yellow Submarine: In the town where I was born Lived a man who sailed to sea...
Onions hiss in the pan on the stove. As we sing And our friends are all on
board I suddenly hear my voice floating alone and I turn and Henry's clothes
lie in a heap, the knife is on the kitchen floor. Half of a pepper sways
slightly on the cutting board. I turn off the heat and cover the onions. I sit
down next to the pile of clothes and scoop them up, still warm from Henry's
body, and sit until all their warmth is from my body, holding them. Then I get
up and go into our bedroom, fold the clothes neatly and place them on our bed.
Then I continue making dinner as best I can, and eat by myself, waiting and
wondering.

Friday, February 3, 1995 (Clare is 23, Henry is
31, and 39)

Clare: Gomez and Charisse and Henry and I are
sitting around our dining room table playing Modern Capitalist Mind-Fuck. It's
a game Gomez and Charisse have invented. We play it with a Monopoly set. It involves
answering questions, getting points, accumulating money, and exploiting your
fellow players. It's Gomez's turn. He shakes the dice, gets a six, and lands on
Community Chest. He draws a card.

"Okay, everybody. What modern
technological invention would you deep-six for the good of society?"

"Television," I say.

"Fabric softener," says Charisse.

"Motion detectors," says Henry
vehemently.

"And I say gunpowder."

"That's hardly modern " I object.

"Okay. The assembly line."

"You don't get two answers," says
Henry.

"Sure I do. What kind of a lame-ass answer
is 'motion detectors,' anyway?"

"I keep getting ratted on by the motion
detectors in the stacks at the Newberry. Twice this week I've ended up in the
stacks after hours, and as soon as I show up the guard is upstairs checking it
out. It's driving me nuts."

"I don't think the proletariat would be
affected much by the de-invention of motion sensors. Clare and I each get ten
points for correct answers, Charisse gets five points for creativity, and Henry
gets to go backward three spaces for valuing the needs of the individual over
the collective good."

"That puts me back on Go. Give me $200.00,
Banker." Charisse gives Henry his money.

"Oops," says Gomez. I smile at him.
It's my turn. I roll a four.

"Park Place. I'll buy it." In order
to buy anything I must correctly answer a question. Henry draws from the Chance
pile. "Whom would you prefer to have dinner with and why: Adam Smith, Karl
Marx, Rosa Luxembourg, Alan Greenspan?" "Rosa."

"Why?"

"Most interesting death." Henry,
Charisse, and Gomez confer and agree that I can buy Park Place. I give Charisse
my money and she hands me the deed. Henry shakes and lands on Income Tax.
Income Tax has its own special cards. We all tense, in apprehension. He reads
the card.

"Great Leap Forward."

"Damn " We all hand Charisse all our
real estate, and she puts it back in the Bank's holdings, along with her own.
"Well, so much for Park Place."

"Sorry." Henry moves halfway across
the board, which puts him on St. James. "I'll buy it."

"My poor little St. James," laments
Charisse. I draw a card from the Free Parking pile.

"What is the exchange rate of the Japanese
yen against the dollar today?"

"I have no idea. Where did that question
come from?"

"Me." Charisse smiles.

"What's the answer?"

"99.8 yen to the dollar."

"Okay. No St. James. Your turn."
Henry hands Charisse the dice. She rolls a four and ends up going to Jail. She
picks a card that tells her what her crime is: Insider Trading. We laugh.

"That sounds more like you guys," says
Gomez. Henry and I smile modestly. We are making a killing in the stock market
these days. To get out of Jail Charisse has to answer three questions. Gomez
picks from the Chance pile. "Question the First: name two famous artists
Trotsky knew in Mexico."

"Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo."

"Good. Question the Second: How much does
Nike pay its Vietnamese workers per diem to make those ridiculously expensive
sneakers?"

"Oh, God. I don't know...$3.00? Ten
cents?"

"What's your answer?" There is an
immense crash in the kitchen. We all jump up, and Henry says, "Sit
down!" so emphatically that we do. He runs into the kitchen. Charisse and
Gomez look at me, startled. I shake my head. "I don't know." But I
do. There is a low murmur of voices and a moan. Charisse and Gomez are frozen,
listening. I stand up and softly follow Henry. He is kneeling on the floor,
holding a dish cloth against the head of the naked man lying on the linoleum,
who is of course Henry. The wooden cabinet that holds our dishes is on its
side; the glass is broken and all the dishes have spilled out and shattered.
Henry is lying in the midst of the mess, bleeding and covered with glass. Both
Henrys look at me, one piteously, the other urgently. I kneel opposite Henry,
over Henry. "Where's all this blood coming from?" I whisper. "I
think it's all from the scalp," Henry whispers back. "Let's call an
ambulance," I say. I start to pick the glass out of Henry's chest. He
closes his eyes and says, "Don't." I stop.