The Time Traveler's Wife

  "He's just so smug," Alicia says, punching the air with her fists. I cough. They both jump and then Clare says, "Oh, Henry, thank God, I thought you were Daddy."

  "Wanna play?" Alicia asks me.

  "No, I'll just watch." There is a tall stool by the table, and I sit on it.

  Clare hands Alicia a cue. Alicia chalks it and then breaks, sharply. Two stripes fall into corner pockets. Alicia sinks two more before missing, just barely, a combo bank shot. "Uh-oh," says Clare. "I'm in trouble." Clare drops an easy solid, the 2 ball, which was poised on the edge of a corner pocket. On her next shot she sends the cue ball into the hole after the 3, and Alicia fishes out both balls and lines up her shot. She runs the stripes without further ado. "Eight ball, side pocket," Alicia calls, and that is that. "Ouch," sighs Clare. "Sure you don't want to play?" She offers me her cue.

  "Come on, Henry," say Alicia. "Hey, do either of you want anything to drink?"

  "No," Clare says.

  "What have you got?" I ask. Alicia snaps on a light and a beautiful old bar appears at the far end of the room. Alicia and I huddle behind it and lo, there is just about everything I can imagine in the way of alcohol. Alicia mixes herself a rum and Coke. I hesitate before such riches, but finally pour myself a stiff whiskey. Clare decides to have something after all, and as she's cracking the miniature tray of ice cubes into a glass for her Kahlua the door opens and we all freeze.

  It's Mark. "Where's Sharon?" Clare asks him. "Lock that," commands Alicia.

  He turns the lock and walks behind the bar. "Sharon is sleeping," he says, pulling a Heineken out of the tiny fridge. He uncaps it and saunters over to the table. "Who's playing?"

  "Alicia and Henry," says Clare.

  "Hmm. Has he been warned?"

  "Shut up, Mark," Alicia says.

  "She's Jackie Gleason in disguise," Mark assures me.

  I turn to Alicia. "Let the games begin." Clare racks again. Alicia gets the break. The whiskey has coated all my synapses, and everything is sharp and clear. The balls explode like fireworks and blossom into a new pattern. The 13 teeters on the edge of a corner pocket and then falls. "Stripes again," Alicia says. She sinks the 15, the 12, and the 9 before a bad leave forces her to try an unmakable two-rail shot.

  Clare is standing just at the edge of the light, so that her face is in shadow but her body floats out of the blackness, her arms folded across her chest. I turn my attention to the table. It's been a while. I sink the 2, 3, and 6 easily, and then look for something else to work with. The 1 is smack in front of the corner pocket at the opposite end of the table, and I send the cue ball into the 7 which drops the 1. I send the 4 into a side pocket with a bank shot and get the 5 in the back corner with a lucky carom. It's just slop, but Alicia whistles anyway. The 7 goes down without mishap. "Eight in the corner" I indicate with my cue, and in it goes. A sigh escapes around the table.

  "Oh, that was beautiful," says Alicia. "Do it again." Clare is smiling in the dark.

  "Not your usual," Mark says to Alicia.

  "I'm too tired to concentrate. And too pissed off."

  "Because of Dad?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, if you poke him, he's going to poke back."

  Alicia pouts. "Anybody can make an honest mistake."

  "It sounded like Terry Riley for a minute there," I tell Alicia.

  She smiles. "It was Terry Riley. It was from Salome Dances for Peace!"

  Clare laughs. "How did Salome get into Silent Night?"

  "Well, you know, John the Baptist, I figured that was enough of a connection, and if you transpose that first violin part down an octave, it sounds pretty good, you know, la la la, LA..."

  "But you can't blame him for getting mad," says Mark. "I mean, he knows that you wouldn't play something that sounded like that by accident."

  I pour myself a second drink.

  "What did Frank say?" Clare asks.

  "Oh, he dug it. He was, like, trying to figure out how to make a whole new piece out of it, you know, like Silent Night meets Stravinsky. I mean, Frank is eighty-seven, he doesn't care if I fuck around as long as he's amused. Arabella and Ashley were pretty snitty about it, though."

  "Well, it isn't very professional," says Mark.

  "Who cares? This is just St. Basil's, you know?" Alicia looks at me. "What do you think?"

  I hesitate. "I don't really care," I say finally. "But if my dad heard you do that, he'd be very angry."

  "Really? Why?"

  "He has this idea that every piece of music should be treated with respect, even if it isn't something he likes much. I mean, he doesn't like Tchaikovsky, or Strauss, but he will play them very seriously. That's why he's great; he plays everything as though he's in love with it."

  "Oh." Alicia walks behind the bar, mixes herself another drink, thinks this over. "Well, you're lucky to have a great dad who loves something besides money."

  I'm standing behind Clare, running my fingers up her spine in the dark. She puts her hand behind her back and I clasp it. "I don't think you would say that if you knew my family at all. Besides, your dad seems to care about you very much."

  "No." she shakes her head. "He just wants me to be perfect in front of his friends. He doesn't care at all." Alicia racks the balls and swivels them into position. "Who wants to play?"

  "I'll play," Mark says. "Henry?"

  "Sure." Mark and I chalk our cues and face each other across the table.

  I break. The 4 and the 15 go down. "Solids," I call, seeing the 2 near the corner. I sink it, and then miss the 3 altogether. I'm getting tired, and my coordination is softening from the whiskies. Mark plays with determination but no flair, and sinks the 10 and the 11. We soldier on, and soon I have sunk all the solids. Mark's 13 is parked on the lip of a corner pocket. "8 ball," I say pointing at it. "You know, you can't drop Mark's ball or you'll lose," says Alicia. "'S okay," I tell her. I launch the cue ball gently across the table, and it kisses the 8 ball lovingly and sends it smooth and easy toward the 13, and it seems to almost detour around the 13 as though on rails, and plops decorously into the hole, and Clare laughs, but then the 13 teeters, and falls.

  "Oh, well," I say. "Easy come, easy go."

  "Good game," says Mark.

  "God, where'd you learn to play like that?" Alicia asks.

  "It was one of the things I learned in college." Along with drinking, English and German poetry, and drugs. We put away the cues and pick up the glasses and bottles.

  "What was your major?" Mark unlocks the door and we all walk together down the hall toward the kitchen.

  "English lit."

  "How come not music?" Alicia balances her glass and Clare's in one hand as she pushes open the dining room door.

  I laugh. "You wouldn't believe how unmusical I am. My parents were sure they'd brought home the wrong kid from the hospital."

  "That must have been a drag," says Mark. "At least Dad's not pushing you to be a lawyer" he says to Alicia. We enter the kitchen and Clare flips on the light.

  "He's not pushing you either" she retorts. "You love it."

  "Well, that's what I mean. He's not making any of us do something we don't want to do."

  "Was it a drag?" Alicia asks me. "I would have been lapping it up."

  "Well, before my mom died, everything was great. After that, everything was terrible. If I had been a violin prodigy, maybe... I dunno." I look at Clare, and shrug. "Anyway, Dad and I don't get along. At all."

  "How come?"

  Clare says, "Bedtime." She means, Enough already. Alicia is waiting for an answer.

  I turn my face to her. "Have you ever seen a picture of my mom?" She nods. "I look like her."

  "So?" Alicia washes the glasses under the tap. Clare dries.

  "So, he can't stand to look at me. I mean, that's just one reason among many."

  "But--"

  "Alicia--" Clare is trying, but Alicia is unstoppable.

  "But he's your dad."

  I smile. "The things you do to
annoy your dad are small beer compared with the things my dad and I have done to each other."

  "Like what?"

  "Like the numerous times he has locked me out of our apartment, in all kinds of weather. Like the time I threw his car keys into the river. That kind of thing."

  "Why'dja do that?"

  "I didn't want him to smash up the car, and he was drunk."

  Alicia, Mark, and Clare all look at me and nod. They understand perfectly.

  "Bedtime," says Alicia, and we all leave the kitchen and go to our rooms without another word, except, "Good night."

  CLARE: It's 3:14 a.m. according to my alarm clock and I am just getting warm in my cold bed when the door opens and Henry comes in very quietly. I pull back the covers and he hops in. The bed squeaks as we arrange ourselves.

  "Hi" I whisper.

  "Hi" Henry whispers back.

  "This isn't a good idea."

  "It was very cold in my room."

  "Oh." Henry touches my cheek, and I have to stifle a shriek. His fingers are icy. I rub them between my palms. Henry burrows deeper into the covers. I press against him, trying to get warm again. "Are you wearing socks?" he asks softly.

  "Yes." He reaches down and pulls them off my feet. After a few minutes and a lot of squeaking and Shhh! we are both naked.

  "Where did you go, when you left church?"

  "My apartment. For about five minutes, four days from now."

  "Why?"

  "Tired. Tense, I guess"

  "No, why there?"

  "Dunno. Sort of a default mechanism. The time travel air traffic controllers thought I would look good there, maybe." Henry buries his hand in my hair.

  It's getting lighter outside. "Merry Christmas," I whisper. Henry doesn't answer, and I lie awake in his arms thinking about multitudes of angels, listening to his measured breath, and pondering in my heart.

  HENRY: In the early hours of the morning I get up to take a leak and as I stand in Clare's bathroom sleepily urinating by the illumination of the Tinkerbell nightlight I hear a girl's voice say "Clare?" and before I can figure out where this voice is coming from a door that I thought was a closet opens and I find myself standing stark naked in front of Alicia. "Oh," she whispers as I belatedly grab a towel and cover myself. "Oh, hi, Alicia," I whisper, and we both grin. She disappears back into her room as abruptly as she came in.

  CLARE: I'm dozing, listening to the house waking up. Nell is down in the kitchen singing and rattling the pans. Someone walks down the hall, past my door. I look over and Henry is still deep in sleep, and I suddenly realize that I have got to get him out of here without anyone seeing. I extricate myself from Henry and the blankets and climb out of bed carefully. I pick my nightgown up off the floor and I'm just pulling it on over my head when Etta says, "Clare! Rise and shine, it's Christmas!" and sticks her head in the door. I hear Alicia calling Etta and as I poke my head out of the nightgown I see Etta turn away to answer Alicia and I turn to the bed and Henry is not there. His pajama bottoms are lying on the rug and I kick them under the bed. Etta walks into my room in her yellow bathrobe with her braids trailing over her shoulders. I say "Merry Christmas!" and she is telling me something about Mama, but I'm having trouble listening because I'm imagining Henry materializing in front of Etta. "Clare?" Etta is peering at me with concern.

  "Huh? Oh, sorry. I'm still asleep, I guess."

  "There's coffee downstairs." Etta is making the bed. She looks puzzled.

  "I'll do that, Etta. You go on down." Etta walks to the other side of the bed. Mama sticks her head in the door. She looks beautiful, serene after last night's storm. "Merry Christmas, honey."

  I walk to her, kiss her cheek lightly. "Merry Christmas, Mama." It's so hard to stay mad at her when she is my familiar, lovely Mama.

  "Etta, will you come down with me?" Mama asks. Etta thwaps the pillows with her hands and the twin impressions of our heads vanish. She glances at me, raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say anything.

  "Etta?"

  "Coming..." Etta bustles out after Mama. I shut the door after them and lean against it, just in time to see Henry roll out from under the bed. He gets up and starts to put his pajamas on. I lock the door.

  "Where were you?" I whisper.

  "Under the bed," Henry whispers back, as though this should be obvious.

  "All the time?"

  "Yeah." For some reason this strikes me as hilarious, and I start to giggle. Henry puts his hand over my mouth, and soon we are both shaking with laughter, silently.

  HENRY: Christmas Day is strangely calm after the high seas of yesterday. We gather around the tree, self-conscious in our bathrobes and slippers, and presents are opened, and exclaimed over. After effusive thanks on all sides, we eat breakfast. There is a lull and then we eat Christmas dinner, with great praise for Nell and the lobsters. Everyone is smiling, well-mannered, and good-looking. We are a model happy family, an advertisement for the bourgeoisie. We are everything I always longed for when I sat in the Lucky Wok restaurant with Dad and Mrs. and Mr. Kim every Christmas Day and tried to pretend I was enjoying myself while the adults all watched anxiously. But even as we lounge, well-fed, in the living room after dinner, watching football on television and reading the books we have given each other and attempting to operate the presents which require batteries and/or assembly, there is a noticeable strain. It is as though somewhere, in one of the more remote rooms of the house, a cease-fire has been signed, and now all the parties are endeavoring to honor it, at least until tomorrow, at least until a new consignment of ammunition comes in. We are all acting, pretending to be relaxed, impersonating the ideal mother, father, sisters, brother, boyfriend, fiancee. And so it is a relief when Clare looks at her watch, gets up off the couch, and says, "Come on, it's time to go over to Laura's."

  CLARE: Laura's party is in full swing by the time we arrive. Henry is tense and pale and heads for the liquor as soon as we get our coats off. I still feel sleepy from the wine we drank at dinner, so I shake my head when he asks me what I want, and he brings me a Coke. He's holding on to his beer as though it's ballast. "Do not, under any circumstances, leave me to fend for myself," Henry demands, looking over my shoulder, and before I can even turn my head Helen is upon us. There is a momentary, embarrassed silence.

  "So, Henry" Helen says, "we hear that you are a librarian. But you don't look like a librarian."

  "Actually, I am a Calvin Klein underwear model. The librarian thing is just a front."

  I've never seen Helen nonplussed before. I wish I had a camera. She recovers quickly, though, looks Henry up and down, and smiles. "Okay, Clare, you can keep him," she says.

  "That's a relief," I tell her. "I've lost the receipt." Laura, Ruth, and Nancy converge on us, looking determined, and interrogate us: how did we meet, what does Henry do for a living, where did he go to college, blah, blah, blah. I never expected that when Henry and I finally appeared in public together it would be simultaneously so nerve-racking and so boring. I tune in again just as Nancy says, "It's so weird that your name is Henry."

  "Oh?" says Henry, "Why's that?"

  Nancy tells him about the slumber party at Mary Christina's, the one where the Ouija board said that I was going to marry someone named Henry. Henry looks impressed. "Really?" he asks me.

  "Um, yeah." I suddenly have an urgent need to pee. "Excuse me," I say, detaching myself from the group and ignoring Henry's pleading expression. Helen is hot on my heels as I run upstairs. I have to shut the bathroom door in her face to stop her from following me in.

  "Open up, Clare," she says, jiggling the door knob. I take my time, pee, wash my hands, put on fresh lipstick. "Clare," Helen grumbles, "I'm gonna go downstairs and tell your boyfriend every single hideous thing you've ever done in your life if you don't open this door immed--" I swing the door open and Helen almost falls into the room.

  "All right, Clare Abshire," Helen says menacingly. She closes the door. I sit down on the side of the bathtub and she leans against th
e sink, looming over me in her pumps. "Fess up. What is really going on with you and this Henry person? I mean, you just stood there and told a big fat stack of lies. You didn't meet this guy three months ago, you've known him for years! What's the big secret?"

  I don't really know how to begin. Should I tell Helen the truth? No. Why not? As far as I know, Helen has only seen Henry once, and he didn't look that different from how he looks right now. I love Helen. She's strong, she's crazy, she's hard to fool. But I know she wouldn't believe me if I said, time travel, Helen. You have to see it to believe it.

  "Okay," I say, gathering my wits. "Yeah, I've known him for a long time."

  "How long?"

  "Since I was six."

  Helen's eyes bug out like a cartoon character's. I laugh.

  "Why...how come...well, how long have you been dating him?"

  "I dunno. I mean, there was a period of time when things were sort of on the verge, but nothing was exactly going on, you know; that is, Henry was pretty adamant that he wasn't going to mess around with a little kid, so I was just kind of hopelessly nuts about him..."

  "But--how come we never knew about him? I don't see why it all had to be such a hush hush. You could have told me."

  "Well, you kind of knew." This is lame, and I know it.

  Helen looks hurt. "That's not the same thing as you telling me."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Hmpf. So what was the deal?"

  "Well, he's eight years older than me."

  "So what?"

  "So when I was twelve and he was twenty, that was a problem." Not to mention when I was six and he was forty.

  "I still don't get it. I mean, I can see you not wanting your parents to know you were playing Lolita to his Humbert Humbert, but I don't get why you couldn't tell us. We would have been totally into it. I mean, we spent all this time feeling sorry for you, and worrying about you, and wondering why you were such a nun--" Helen shakes her head. "And there you were, screwing Mario the Librarian the whole time--"

  I can't help it, I'm blushing. "I was not screwing him the whole time."

  "Oh, come, on."

  "Really! We waited till I was eighteen. We did it on my birthday."

  "Even so, Clare," Helen begins, but there's a heavy knock on the bathroom door, and a deep male voice asks, "Are you girls about done in there?"

  "To be continued," Helen hisses at me as we exit the bathroom to the applause of the five guys standing in line in the hallway.