The Time Traveler's Wife, Page 25

  Janice considers. "This isn't what your mom thinks we're doing."

  "Uh-huh. But it's my wedding. And my hair. And I'll give you a very large tip if you do it my way."

  "I won't have time to do your face if we do this; it'll take too long to do all these braids."

  Hallelujah. "It's okay. I'll put on my own makeup."

  "Well, all right. Just comb it for me and we'll get started." I begin to pick out the tangles. I'm starting to enjoy this. As I surrender to Janice's slender brown hands I wonder what Henry is up to.

  (11:36 a.m.)

  HENRY: The tux and all its attendant miseries are laid out on the bed. I'm freezing my undernourished ass off in this cold room. I throw all my cold wet clothing out of the tub and into the sink. This bathroom is amazingly as big as the bedroom. It's carpeted, and relentlessly pseudo-Victorian. The tub is an immense claw-footed thing amid various ferns and stacks of towels and a commode and a large framed reproduction of Hunt's The Awakened Conscience. The windowsill is six inches from the floor and the curtains are filmy white muslin, so I can see Maple Street in all its dead leafy glory. A beige Lincoln Continental cruises lazily up the street. I run hot water into the tub, which is so large that I get tired of waiting for it to fill and climb in. I amuse myself playing with the European-style shower attachment and taking the caps off the ten or so shampoos, shower gels, and conditioners and sniffing them all; by the fifth one I have a headache. I sing Yellow Submarine. Everything within a four-foot radius gets wet.

  (12:35 p.m.)

  CLARE: Janice releases me, and Mama and Etta converge. Etta says, "Oh, Clare, you look beautiful!" Mama says, "That's not the hairstyle we agreed on, Clare." Mama gives Janice a hard time and then pays her and I give Janice her tip when Mama's not looking. I'm supposed to get dressed at the church, so they pack me into the car and we drive over to St. Basil's.

  (12:55 p.m.) (Henry is 38)

  HENRY: I'm walking along Highway 12, about two miles south of South Haven. It's an unbelievably awful day, weather-wise. It's fall, rain is gusting and pouring down in sheets, and it's cold and windy. I'm wearing nothing but jeans, I'm barefoot, and I am soaked to the skin. I have no idea where I am in time. I'm headed for Meadowlark House, hoping to dry out in the Reading Room and maybe eat something. I have no money, but when I see the pink neon light of the Cut-Rate Gas for Less sign I veer toward it. I enter the gas station and stand for a moment, streaming water onto the linoleum and catching my breath.

  "Quite a day to be out in," says the thin elderly gent behind the counter.

  "Yep," I reply.

  "Car break down?"

  "Huh? Um, no." He's taking a good look at me, noting the bare feet, the unseasonable clothing. I pause, feign embarrassment. "Girlfriend threw me out of the house."

  He says something but I don't hear it because I am looking at the South Haven Daily. Today is Saturday, October 23, 1993. Our wedding day. The clock above the cigarette rack says 1:10.

  "Gotta run," I say to the old man, and I do.

  (1:42 p.m.)

  CLARE: I'm standing in my fourth grade classroom wearing my wedding dress. It's ivory watered silk with lots of lace and seed pearls. The dress is tightly fitted in the bodice and arms but the skirt is huge, floor-length with a train and twenty yards of fabric. I could hide ten midgets under it. I feel like a parade float, but Mama is making much of me; she's fussing and taking pictures and trying to get me to put on more makeup. Alicia and Charisse and Helen and Ruth are all fluttering around in their matching sage green velvet bridesmaids' outfits. Since Charisse and Ruth are both short and Alicia and Helen are both tall they look like some oddly assorted Girl Scouts but we've all agreed to be cool about it when Mama's around. They are comparing the dye jobs on their shoes and arguing about who should get to catch the bouquet. Helen says, "Charisse, you're already engaged, you shouldn't even be trying to catch it," and Charisse shrugs and says, "Insurance. With Gomez you never know."

  (1:48 p.m.)

  HENRY: I'm sitting on a radiator in a musty room full of boxes of prayer books. Gomez is pacing back and forth, smoking. He looks terrific in his tux. I feel like I'm impersonating a game show host. Gomez paces and flicks his ashes into a teacup. He's making me even more nervous than I already am.

  "You've got the ring?" I ask for the gazillionth time.

  "Yeah. I've got the ring."

  He stops pacing for a moment and looks at me. "Want a drink?"

  "Yeah." Gomez produces a flask and hands it to me. I uncap it and take a swallow. It's very smooth Scotch. I take another mouthful and hand it back. I can hear people laughing and talking out in the vestibule. I'm sweating, and my head aches. The room is very warm. I stand up and open the window, hang my head out, breathe. It's still raining.

  There's a noise in the shrubbery. I open the window farther and look down. There I am, sitting in the dirt, under the window, soaking wet, panting. He grins at me and gives me the thumbs up.

  (1:55 p.m.)

  CLARE: We're all standing in the vestibule of the church. Daddy says, "Let's get this show on the road," and knocks on the door of the room Henry is dressing in. Gomez sticks his head out and says, "Give us a minute." He throws me a look that makes my stomach clench and pulls his head in and shuts the door. I am walking toward the door when Gomez opens it again, and Henry appears, doing up his cuff links. He's wet, dirty, and unshaven. He looks about forty. But he's here, and he gives me a triumphant smile as he walks through the doors of the church and down the aisle.

  Sunday, June 13, 1976 (Henry is 30)

  HENRY: I am lying on the floor in my old bedroom. I'm alone, and it's a perfect summer night in an unknown year. I lie there swearing and feeling like an idiot for a while. Then I get up and go into the kitchen and help myself to several of Dad's beers.

  Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 38, and 30, Clare is 22) (2:37 p.m.)

  CLARE: We are standing at the altar. Henry turns to me and says, "I, Henry, take you, Clare, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life." I think: remember this. I repeat the promise to him. Father Compton smiles at us and says, "...What God has joined, men must not divide." I think: that's not really the problem. Henry slides the thin silver ring over my finger into place above the engagement ring. I place his plain gold band on his finger, the only time he will ever wear it. The Mass proceeds, and I think this is all that matters: he's here, I'm here, it doesn't matter how, as long as he's with me. Father Compton blesses us, and says, "The Mass is ended, go in peace." We walk down the aisle, arm in arm, together.

  (6:26 p.m.)

  HENRY: The reception is just getting underway. The caterers are rushing back and forth with steel carts and covered trays. People are arriving and checking their coats. The rain has finally stopped. The South Haven Yacht Club is on North Beach, a 1920s building done up in paneling and leather, red carpet, and paintings of ships. It's dark out now, but the lighthouse is blinking away out on the pier. I'm standing at a window, drinking Glenlivet, waiting for Clare, who has been whisked away by her mother for some reason I'm not privy to. I see Gomez and Ben's reflections, heading toward me, and I turn.

  Ben looks worried. "How are you?"

  "I'm okay. Can you guys do me a favor?" They nod. "Gomez, go back to the church. I'm there, waiting in the vestibule. Pick me up, and bring me here. Smuggle me into the downstairs men's John and leave me there. Ben, keep an eye on me," (I point at my chest) "and when I tell you to, grab my tux and bring it to me in the men's room. Okay?"

  Gomez asks, "How much time do we have?"

  "Not much."

  He nods, and walks away. Charisse approaches, and Gomez kisses her on the forehead and continues on. I turn to Ben, who looks tired. "How are you?" I ask him.

  Ben sighs. "Kind of fatigued. Um, Henry?"

  "Hmm?"

  "When are you coming from?"

  "2002."

  "Ca
n you... Look, I know you don't like this, but..."

  "What? It's okay, Ben. Whatever you want. It's a special occasion."

  "Tell me: am I still alive?" Ben isn't looking at me; he stares at the band, tuning up in the ballroom.

  "Yes. You're doing fine. I just saw you a few days ago; we played pool."

  Ben lets his breath out in a rush. "Thank you."

  "No problem." Tears are welling up in Ben's eyes. I offer him my handkerchief, and he takes it, but then hands it back unused and goes off in search of the men's room.

  (7:04 p.m.)

  CLARE: Everyone is sitting down to dinner and no one can find Henry. I ask Gomez if he's seen him, and Gomez just gives me one of his Gomez looks and says that he's sure Henry will be here any minute. Kimy comes up to us, looking very fragile and worried in her rose silk dress. "Where is Henry?" she asks me.

  "I don't know, Kimy."

  She pulls me toward her and whispers in my ear, "I saw his young friend Ben carrying a pile of clothing out of the Lounge." Oh, no. If Henry has snapped back to his present it will be hard to explain. Maybe I could say that there was an emergency? Some kind of library emergency that required Henry's immediate attention. But all his co-workers are here. Maybe I could say Henry has amnesia, has wandered away...

  "There he is," Kimy says. She squeezes my hand. Henry is standing in the doorway scanning the crowd, and sees us. He comes running over.

  I kiss him. "Howdy, stranger." He is back in the present, my younger Henry, the one who belongs here. Henry takes my arm, and Kimy's arm, and leads us in to dinner. Kimy chuckles, and says something to Henry that I don't catch. "What'd she say?" I ask as we sit down. "She asked me if we were planning a menage a trois for the wedding night." I turn lobster red. Kimy winks at me.

  (7:16 p.m.)

  HENRY: I'm hanging out in the club Library, eating canapes and reading a sumptuously bound and probably never opened first edition of Heart of Darkness. Out of the corner of my eye I see the manager of the club speeding toward me. I close the book and replace it on the shelf.

  "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave." No shirt, no shoes, no service.

  "Okay." I stand up, and as the manager turns his back blood rushes to my head and I vanish. I come to on our kitchen floor on March 2, 2002, laughing. I've always wanted to do that.

  (7:21 p.m.)

  CLARE: Gomez is making a speech:

  "Dear Clare, and Henry, family and friends, members of the jury...wait, scratch that. Dearly beloved, we have gathered here this evening on the shores of the Land of Singledom to wave our handkerchiefs at Clare and Henry as they embark together on their voyage on the Good Ship Matrimony. And while we are sad to watch them bid farewell to the joys of single life, we are confident that the much-ballyhooed state of Wedded Bliss will be a more than adequate new address. Some of us may even join them there shortly unless we can think of a way to avoid it. And so, let us have a toast: to Clare Abshire DeTamble, a beautiful artbabe who deserves every happiness that may befall her in her new world. And to Henry DeTamble, a damn fine fellow and a lucky son of a bitch: may the Sea of Life stretch before you like glass, and may you always have the wind at your backs. To the happy couple!" Gomez leans over and kisses me on the mouth, and I catch his eyes for a moment, and then the moment is gone.

  (8:48 p.m.)

  HENRY: We have cut and eaten the wedding cake. Clare has thrown her bouquet (Charisse caught it) and I have thrown Clare's garter (Ben, of all people, caught that). The band is playing Take the A Train, and people are dancing. I have danced with Clare, and Kimy, Alicia, and Charisse; now I am dancing with Helen, who is pretty hot stuff, and Clare is dancing with Gomez. As I casually twirl Helen I see Celia Attley cut in on Gomez, who in turn cuts in on me. As he whirls Helen away I join the crowd by the bar and watch Clare dancing with Celia. Ben joins me. He's drinking seltzer. I order vodka and tonic. Ben is wearing Clare's garter around his arm like he's in mourning.

  "Who's that?" he asks me.

  "Celia Attley. Ingrid's girlfriend."

  "That's weird."

  "Yep."

  "What's with that guy Gomez?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Ben stares at me and then turns his head. "Never mind."

  (10:23 p.m.)

  CLARE: It's over. We have kissed and hugged our way out of the club, have driven off in our shaving-cream-and-tin-can-covered car. I pull up in front of the Dew Drop Inn, a tiny, tacky motel on Silver Lake. Henry is asleep. I get out, check in, get the desk guy to help me walk Henry into our room and dump him on the bed. The guy brings in the luggage, eyeballs my wedding dress and Henry's inert state, and smirks at me. I tip him. He leaves. I remove Henry's shoes, loosen his tie. I take off my dress and lay it over the armchair.

  I'm standing in the bathroom, shivering in my slip and brushing my teeth. In the mirror I can see Henry lying on the bed. He's snoring. I spit out the toothpaste and rinse my mouth. Suddenly it comes over me: happiness. And the realization: we're married. Well, I'm married, anyway.

  When I turn out the light I kiss Henry goodnight. He smells of alcohol sweat and Helen's perfume. Goodnight, goodnight, don't let the bedbugs bite. And I fall asleep, dreamless and happy.

  Monday, October 25, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare is 22)

  HENRY: The Monday after the wedding Clare and I are at Chicago City Hall, being married by a judge. Gomez and Charisse are the witnesses. Afterward we all go out for dinner at Charlie Trotter's, a restaurant so expensive that the decor resembles the first-class section of an airplane or a minimalist sculpture. Fortunately, although the food looks like art, it tastes great. Charisse takes photographs of each course as it appears in front of us.

  "How's it feel, being married?" asks Charisse.

  "I feel very married," Clare says.

  "You could keep going," says Gomez. "Try out all the different ceremonies, Buddhist, nudist..."

  "I wonder if I'm a bigamist?" Clare is eating something pistachio-colored that has several large shrimp poised over it as though they are nearsighted old men reading a newspaper.

  "I think you're allowed to marry the same person as many times as you want," Charisse says.

  "Are you the same person?" Gomez asks me. The thing I'm eating is covered with thin slices of raw tuna that melt on my tongue. I take a moment to appreciate them before I answer: "Yes, but more so."

  Gomez is disgruntled and mutters something about Zen koans, but Clare smiles at me and raises her glass. I tap hers with mine: a delicate crystal note rings out and falls away in the hum of the restaurant.

  And so, we are married.

  II

  A DROP OF BLOOD

  IN A BOWL OF MILK

  "What is it? My dear?"

  "Ah, how can we bear it?"

  "Bear what?"

  "This. For so short a time. How can we sleep this time away?"

  "We can be quiet together, and pretend--since it is only the beginning--that we have all the time in the world."

  "And every day we shall have less. And then none."

  "Would you rather, therefore, have had nothing at all?"

  "No. This is where I have always been coming to. Since my time began. And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run. But now, my love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere."

  --A.S. Byatt, Possession

  MARRIED LIFE

  March, 1994 (Clare is 22, Henry is 30)

  CLARE: And so we are married.

  At first we live in a two-bedroom apartment in a two-flat in Ravenswood. It's sunny, with butter-colored hardwood floors and a kitchen full of antique cabinets and antiquated appliances. We buy things, spend Sunday afternoons in Crate & Barrel exchanging wedding presents, order a sofa that can't fit through the doors of the apartment and has to be sent back. The apartment is a laboratory in which we conduct experiments, perform research on each other. We discover
that Henry hates it when I absentmindedly click my spoon against my teeth while reading the paper at breakfast. We agree that it is okay for me to listen to Joni Mitchell and it is okay for Henry to listen to the Shags as long as the other person isn't around. We figure out that Henry should do all the cooking and I should be in charge of laundry and neither of us is willing to vacuum so we hire a cleaning service.

  We fall into a routine. Henry works Tuesdays through Saturdays at the Newberry. He gets up at 7:30 and starts the coffee, then throws on his running clothes and goes for a run. When he gets back he showers and dresses, and I stagger out of bed and chat with him while he fixes breakfast. After we eat, he brushes his teeth and speeds out the door to catch the El, and I go back to bed and doze for an hour or so.

  When I get up again the apartment is quiet. I take a bath and comb my hair and put on my work clothes. I pour myself another cup of coffee, and I walk into the back bedroom which is my studio, and I close the door.

  I am having a hard time, in my tiny back bedroom studio, in the beginning of my married life. The space that I can call mine, that isn't full of Henry, is so small that my ideas have become small. I am like a caterpillar in a cocoon of paper; all around me are sketches for sculptures, small drawings that seem like moths fluttering against the windows, beating their wings to escape from this tiny space. I make maquettes, tiny sculptures that are rehearsals for huge sculptures. Every day the ideas come more reluctantly, as though they know I will starve them and stunt their growth. At night I dream about color, about submerging my arms into vats of paper fiber. I dream about miniature gardens I can't set foot in because I am a giantess.

  The compelling thing about making art--or making anything, I suppose--is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances. Circe, Nimbue, Artemis, Athena, all the old sorceresses: they must have known the feeling as they transformed mere men into fabulous creatures, stole the secrets of the magicians, disposed armies: ah, look, there it is, the new thing. Call it a swine, a war, a laurel tree. Call it art. The magic I can make is small magic now, deferred magic. Every day I work, but nothing ever materializes. I feel like Penelope, weaving and unweaving.