The Time Traveler's Wife, Page 8

  Clare takes the Thermos from me. She pours herself half an inch of coffee and takes a cautious sip. "Ugh," she says. "This is disgusting. Is it supposed to taste like this?"

  "Well, it's usually a little less ferocious. You like yours with lots of cream and sugar."

  Clare pours the rest of her coffee into the Meadow and takes a doughnut. Then she says, "You're making me into a freak."

  I don't have a ready reply for this, since the idea has never occurred to me. "Uh, no I'm not."

  "You are so."

  "Am not." I pause. "What do you mean, I'm making you into a freak? I'm not making you into anything."

  "You know, like telling me that I like coffee with cream and sugar before I hardly even taste it. I mean, how am I going to figure out if that's what I like or if I just like it because you tell me I like it?"

  "But Clare, it's just personal taste. You should be able to figure out how you like coffee whether I say anything or not. Besides, you're the one who's always bugging me to tell you about the future."

  "Knowing the future is different from being told what I like," Clare says.

  "Why? It's all got to do with free will."

  Clare takes off her shoes and socks. She pushes the socks into the shoes and places them neatly at the edge of the blanket. Then she takes my cast-off flip-flops and aligns them with her shoes, as though the blanket is a tatami mat. "I thought free will had to do with sin."

  I think about this. "No," I say, "why should free will be limited to right and wrong? I mean, you just decided, of your own free will, to take off your shoes. It doesn't matter, nobody cares if you wear shoes or not, and it's not sinful, or virtuous, and it doesn't affect the future, but you've exercised your free will"

  Clare shrugs. "But sometimes you tell me something and I feel like the future is already there, you know? Like my future has happened in the past and I can't do anything about it."

  "That's called determinism," I tell her. "It haunts my dreams."

  Clare is intrigued. "Why?"

  "Well, if you are feeling boxed in by the idea that your future is unalterable, imagine how I feel. I'm constantly running up against the fact that I can't change anything, even though I am right there, watching it."

  "But Henry, you do change things! I mean, you wrote down that stuff that I'm supposed to give you in 1991 about the baby with Down Syndrome, And the List, if I didn't have the List I would never know when to come meet you. You change things all the time."

  I smile. "I can only do things that work toward what has already happened. I can't, for example, undo the fact that you just took off your shoes."

  Clare laughs. "Why would you care if I take them off or not?"

  "I don't. But even if I did, it's now an unalterable part of the history of the universe and I can't do a thing about it." I help myself to a doughnut. It's a Bismarck, my favorite. The frosting is melting in the sun a little, and it sticks to my fingers.

  Clare finishes her doughnut, rolls up the cuffs of her jeans and sits cross-legged. She scratches her neck and looks at me with annoyance. "Now you're making me self-conscious. I feel like every time I blow my nose it's a historic event."

  "Well, it is."

  She rolls her eyes. "What's the opposite of determinism?"

  "Chaos."

  "Oh. I don't think I like that. Do you like that?"

  I take a big bite out of the Bismarck and consider chaos. "Well, I do and I don't. Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. But no meaning. I want to be free to act, and I also want my actions to mean something."

  "But, Henry, you're forgetting about God--why can't there be a God who makes it mean something?" Clare frowns earnestly, and looks away across the Meadow as she speaks.

  I pop the last of the Bismarck into my mouth and chew slowly to gain time. Whenever Clare mentions God my palms start to sweat and I have an urge to hide or run or vanish.

  "I don't know, Clare. I mean, to me things seem too random and meaningless for there to be a God."

  Clare clasps her arms around her knees. "But you just said before that everything seems like it's all planned out beforehand."

  "Hpmf," I say. I grab Clare's ankles, pull her feet onto my lap, and hold on. Clare laughs, and leans back on her elbows. Clare's feet are cold in my hands; they are very pink and very clean. "Okay," I say, "let's see. The choices we're working with here are a block universe, where past, present and future all coexist simultaneously and everything has already happened; chaos, where anything can happen and nothing can be predicted because we can't know all the variables; and a Christian universe in which God made everything and it's all here for a purpose but we have free will anyway. Right?"

  Clare wiggles her toes at me. "I guess."

  "And what do you vote for?"

  Clare is silent. Her pragmatism and her romantic feelings about Jesus and Mary are, at thirteen, almost equally balanced. A year ago she would have said God without hesitation. In ten years she will vote for determinism, and ten years after that Clare will believe that the universe is arbitrary, that if God exists he does not hear our prayers, that cause and effect are inescapable and brutal, but meaningless. And after that? I don't know. But right now Clare sits on the threshold of adolescence with her faith in one hand and her growing skepticism in the other, and all she can do is try to juggle them, or squeeze them together until they fuse. She shakes her head. "I don't know. I want God. Is that okay?"

  I feel like an asshole. "Of course it's okay. That's what you believe."

  "But I don't want to just believe it, I want it to be true."

  I run my thumbs across Clare's arches, and she closes her eyes. "You and St. Thomas Aquinas both," I say.

  "I've heard of him," Clare says, as though she's speaking of a long-lost favorite uncle, or the host of a TV show she used to watch when she was little.

  "He wanted order and reason, and God, too. He lived in the thirteenth century and taught at the University of Paris. Aquinas believed in both Aristotle and angels."

  "I love angels," says Clare. "They're so beautiful. I wish I could have wings and fly around and sit on clouds."

  "Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich."

  Clare sighs, a little soft sigh that means I don't speak German, remember? "Huh?"

  "'Every angel is terrifying.' It's part of a series of poems called The Duino Elegies, by a poet named Rilke. He's one of our favorite poets."

  Clare laughs. "You're doing it again!"

  "What?"

  "Telling me what I like." Clare burrows into my lap with her feet. Without thinking I put her feet on my shoulders, but then that seems too sexual, somehow, and I quickly take Clare's feet in my hands again and hold them together with one hand in the air as she lies on her back, innocent and angelic with her hair spread nimbus-like around her on the blanket. I tickle her feet. Clare giggles and twists out of my hands like a fish, jumps up and does a cartwheel across the clearing, grinning at me as if to dare me to come and get her. I just grin back, and she returns to the blanket and sits down next to me.

  "Henry?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You are making me different."

  "I know"

  I turn to look at Clare and just for a moment I forget that she is young, and that this is long ago; I see Clare, my wife, superimposed on the face of this young girl, and I don't know what to say to this Clare who is old and young and different from other girls, who knows that different might be hard. But Clare doesn't seem to expect an answer. She leans against my arm, and I put my arm around her shoulders.

  "Clare!" Across the quiet of the Meadow Clare's dad is bellowing her name. Clare jumps up and grabs her shoes and socks.

  "It's time for church," she says, suddenly nervous.

  "Okay," I say. "Um, bye." I wave at her, and she smiles and mumbles goodbye and is running up the path, and is gone. I lie in the sun for a while, wondering about God, reading Dorothy Sayers. After an hour or so has passed I too am gone and there is only a blanket a
nd a book, coffee cups, and clothing, to show that we were there at all.

  AFTER THE END

  Saturday, October 27, 1984 (Clare is 13, Henry is 43)

  CLARE: I wake up suddenly. There was a noise: someone called my name. It sounded like Henry. I sit up in bed, listening. I hear the wind, and crows calling. But what if it was Henry? I jump out of bed and I run, with no shoes I run downstairs, out the back door, into the Meadow. It's cold, the wind cuts right through my nightgown. Where is he? I stop and look and there, by the orchard, there's Daddy and Mark, in their bright orange hunting clothes, and there's a man with them, they are all standing and looking at something but then they hear me and they turn and I see that the man is Henry. What is Henry doing with Daddy and Mark? I run to them, my feet cut by the dead grasses, and Daddy walks to meet me. "Sweetheart," he says, "what are you doing out here so early?"

  "I heard my name" I say. He smiles at me. Silly girl, his smile says, and I look at Henry, to see if he will explain. Why did you call me, Henry? but he shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips, Shhh, don't tell, Clare. He walks into the orchard and I want to see what they were looking at but there's nothing there and Daddy says, "Go back to bed, Clare, it was just a dream." He puts his arm around me and begins to walk back toward the house with me and I look back at Henry and he waves, he's smiling, It's okay, Clare, I'll explain later (although knowing Henry he probably won't explain, he'll make me figure it out or it will explain itself one of these days). I wave back at him, and then I check to see if Mark saw that but Mark has his back to us, he's irritated and is waiting for me to go away so he and Daddy can go back to hunting, but what is Henry doing here, what did they say to each other? I look back again but I don't see Henry and Daddy says, "Go on, now, Clare, go back to bed," and he kisses my forehead. He seems upset and so I run, run back to the house, and then softly up the stairs and then I am sitting on my bed, shivering, and I still don't know what just happened, but I know it was bad, it was very, very bad.

  Monday, February 2, 1987 (Clare is 15, Henry is 38)

  CLARE: When I get home from school Henry is waiting for me in the Reading Room. I have fixed a little room for him next to the furnace room; it's on the opposite side from where all the bicycles are. I have allowed it to be known in my household that I like to spend time in the basement reading, and I do in fact spend a lot of time in here, so that it doesn't seem unusual. Henry has a chair wedged under the doorknob. I knock four knocks and he lets me in. He has made a sort of nest out of pillows and chair cushions and blankets, he has been reading old magazines under my desk lamp. He is wearing Dad's old jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, and he looks tired and unshaven. I left the back door unlocked for him this morning and here he is.

  I set the tray of food I have brought on the floor. "I could bring down some books."

  "Actually, these are great." He's been reading Mad magazines from the '60s. "And this is indispensable for time travelers who need to know all sorts of factoids at a moment's notice," he says, holding up the 1968 World Almanac.

  I sit down next to him on the blankets, and look over at him to see if he's going to make me move. I can see he's thinking about it, so I hold up my hands for him to see and then I sit on them. He smiles. "Make yourself at home," he says.

  "When are you coming from?"

  "2001. October"

  "You look tired." I can see that he's debating about telling me why he's tired, and decides against it. "What are we up to in 2001?"

  "Big things. Exhausting things." Henry starts to eat the roast beef sandwich I have brought him. "Hey, this is good."

  "Nell made it."

  He laughs. "I'll never understand why it is that you can build huge sculptures that withstand gale force winds, deal with dye recipes, cook kozo, and all that, and you can't do anything whatsoever with food. It's amazing."

  "It's a mental block. A phobia."

  "It's weird."

  "I walk into the kitchen and I hear this little voice saying, 'Go away.' So I do."

  "Are you eating enough? You look thin."

  I feel fat. "I'm eating." I have a dismal thought. "Am I very fat in 2001? Maybe that's why you think I'm too thin."

  Henry smiles at some joke I don't get. "Well, you're kind of plump at the moment, in my present, but it will pass."

  "Ugh."

  "Plump is good. It will look very good on you."

  "No thanks." Henry looks at me, worrying. "You know, I'm not anorexic or anything. I mean, you don't have to worry about it."

  "Well, it's just that your mom was always bugging you about it."

  "'Was'?"

  "Is."

  "Why did you say was?"

  "No reason. Lucille is fine. Don't worry." He's lying. My stomach tightens and I wrap my arms around my knees and put my head down.

  HENRY: I cannot believe that I have made a slip of the tongue of this magnitude. I stroke Clare's hair, and I wish fervently that I could go back to my present for just a minute, long enough to consult Clare, to find out what I should say to her, at fifteen, about her mother's death. It's because I'm not getting any sleep. If I was getting some sleep I would have been thinking faster, or at least covering better for my lapse. But Clare, who is the most truthful person I know, is acutely sensitive to even small lies, and now the only alternatives are to refuse to say anything, which will make her frantic, or to lie, which she won't accept, or to tell the truth, which will upset her and do strange things to her relationship with her mother. Clare looks at me. "Tell me," she says.

  CLARE: Henry looks miserable. "I can't, Clare."

  "Why not?"

  "It's not good to know things ahead. It screws up your life."

  "Yes. But you can't half tell me."

  "There's nothing to tell."

  I'm really beginning to panic. "She killed herself." I am flooded with certainty. It is the thing I have always feared most.

  "No. No. Absolutely not."

  I stare at him. Henry just looks very unhappy. I cannot tell if he is telling the truth. If I could only read his mind, how much easier life would be. Mama. Oh, Mama.

  HENRY: This is dreadful. I can't leave Clare with this.

  "Ovarian cancer," I say, very quietly.

  "Thank God," she says, and begins to cry.

  Friday, June 5, 1987 (Clare is 16, Henry is 32)

  CLARE: I've been waiting all day for Henry. I'm so excited. I got my driver's license yesterday, and Daddy said I could take the Fiat to Ruth's party tonight. Mama doesn't like this at all, but since Daddy has already said yes she can't do much about it. I can hear them arguing in the library after dinner.

  "You could have asked me--"

  "It seemed harmless, Lucy..."

  I take my book and walk out to the Meadow. I lie down in the grass. The sun is beginning to set. It's cool out here, and the grass is full of little white moths. The sky is pink and orange over the trees in the west, and an arc of deepening blue over me. I am thinking about going back to the house and getting a sweater when I hear someone walking through the grass. Sure enough, it's Henry. He enters the clearing and sits down on the rock. I spy on him from the grass. He looks fairly young, early thirties maybe. He's wearing the plain black T-shirt and jeans and hi-tops. He's just sitting quietly, waiting. I can't wait a minute longer, myself, and I jump up and startle him.

  "Jesus, Clare, don't give the geezer a heart attack."

  "You're not a geezer."

  Henry smiles. He's funny about being old.

  "Kiss," I demand, and he kisses me.

  "What was that for?" he asks.

  "I got my driver's license!"

  Henry looks alarmed. "Oh, no. I mean, congratulations."

  I smile at him; nothing he says can ruin my mood. "You're just jealous."

  "I am, in fact. I love to drive, and I never do."

  "How come?"

  "Too dangerous."

  "Chicken."

  "I mean for other people. Imagine what would happe
n if I was driving and I disappeared? The car would still be moving and kaboom! lots of dead people and blood. Not pretty."

  I sit down on the rock next to Henry. He moves away. I ignore this. "I'm going to a party at Ruth's tonight. Want to come?"

  He raises one eyebrow. This usually means he's going to quote from a book I've never heard of or lecture me about something. Instead he only says, "But Clare, that would involve meeting a whole bunch of your friends."

  "Why not? I'm tired of being all secretive about this."

  "Let's see. You're sixteen. I'm thirty-two right now, only twice your age. I'm sure no one would even notice, and your parents would never hear about it."

  I sigh. "Well, I have to go to this party. Come with and sit in the car and I won't stay in very long and then we can go somewhere."

  HENRY: We park about a block away from Ruth's house. I can hear the music all the way down here; it's Talking Heads' Once In A Lifetime. I actually kind of wish I could go with Clare, but it would be unwise. She hops out of the car and says, "Stay!" as though I am a large, disobedient dog, and totters off in her heels and short skirt toward Ruth's. I slump down and wait.

  CLARE: As soon as I walk in the door I know this party is a mistake. Ruth's parents are in San Francisco for a week, so at least she will have some time to repair, clean, and explain, but I'm glad it's not my house all the same. Ruth's older brother, Jake, has also invited his friends, and altogether there are about a hundred people here and all of them are drunk. There are more guys than girls and I wish I had worn pants and flats, but it's too late to do anything about it. As I walk into the kitchen to get a drink someone behind me says, "Check out Miss Look-But-Don't-Touch!" and makes an obscene slurping sound. I spin around and see the guy we call Lizardface (because of his acne) leering at me. "Nice dress, Clare."

  "Thanks, but it's not for your benefit, Lizardface."

  He follows me into the kitchen. "Now, that's not a very nice thing to say, young lady. After all, I'm just trying to express my appreciation of your extremely comely attire, and all you can do is insult me..." He won't shut up. I finally escape by grabbing Helen and using her as a human shield to get out of the kitchen.

  "This sucks," says Helen. "Where's Ruth?"

  Ruth is hiding upstairs in her bedroom with Laura. They are smoking a joint in the dark and watching out the window as a bunch of Jake's friends skinny dip in the pool. Soon we are all sitting in the window seat gawking.