HOME IS ANYWHERE YOU HANG YOUR HEAD

Saturday, May 9, 1992 (Henry is 28)

HENRY: I’ve decided that the best strategy is to just ask straight out; either he says yes or no. I take the Ravenswood El to Dad’s apartment, the home of my youth. I haven’t been here much lately; Dad seldom invites me over and I’m not given to showing up unannounced, the way I’m about to do. But if he won’t answer his phone, what does he expect? I get off at Western and walk west on Lawrence. The two-flat is on Virginia; the back porch looks over the Chicago River. As I stand in the foyer fumbling for my key Mrs. Kim peeps out of her door and furtively gestures for me to step in. I am alarmed; Kimy is usually very hearty and loud and affectionate, and although she knows everything there is to know about us she never interferes. Well, almost never. Actually, she gets pretty involved in our lives, but we like it. I sense that she is really upset.

“You like a Coke?” She’s already marching toward her kitchen.

“Sure.” I set my backpack by the front door and follow her. In the kitchen she cracks the metal lever of an old-fashioned ice cube tray. I always marvel at Kimy’s strength. She must be seventy and to me she seems exactly the same as when I was little. I spent a lot of time down here, helping her make dinner for Mr. Kim (who died five years ago), reading, doing homework, and watching TV. I sit at the kitchen table and she sets a glass of Coke brimming with ice before me. She has a half-consumed cup of instant coffee in one of the bone china cups with hummingbirds painted around the rim. I remember the first time she allowed me to drink coffee out of one of those cups; I was thirteen. I felt like a grown-up.

“Long time no see, buddy.”

Ouch. “I know. I’m sorry.. .time has been moving kind of fast, lately.”

She appraises me. Kimy has piercing black eyes, which seem to see the very back of my brain. Her flat Korean face conceals all emotion unless she wants you to see it. She is a fantastic bridge player.

“You been time traveling?”

“No. In fact, I haven’t been anywhere for months. It’s been great.” “You got a girlfriend?”

I grin.

“Ho ho. Okay, I know all about it. What’s her name? How come you don’t bring her around?”

“Her name is Clare. I have offered to bring her around several times and he always turns

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me down.”

“You don’t offer to me. You come here, Richard will come, too. We’ll have duck almondine.”

As usual I am impressed with my own obtusity. Mrs. Kim knows the perfect way to dissolve all social difficulties. My dad feels no compunction about being a jerk to me, but he will always make an effort for Mrs. Kim, as well he should, since she pretty much raised his child and probably isn’t charging him market rent.

“You’re a genius.”

“Yes, I am. How come I don’t get a MacArthur grant? I ask you?”

“Dunno. Maybe you’re not getting out of the house enough. I don’t think the MacArthur people are hanging out at Bingo World.”

“No, they already got enough money. So when you getting married?”

Coke comes up my nose, I’m laughing so hard. Kimy lurches up and starts thumping me on the back. I subside, and she sits back down, grumpily. “What’s so funny? I’m just asking. I get to ask, huh?”

“No, that’s not it—I mean, I’m not laughing because it’s ludicrous, I’m laughing because you are reading my mind. I came over to ask Dad to let me have Mom’s rings.”

“Ohhhhh. Boy, I don’t know. Wow, you’re getting married. Hey! That’s great! She gonna say yes?”

“I think so. I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Well, that’s pretty good, I don’t know about your mom’s rings, though. See, what I want to tell you—” her eyes glance at the ceiling “your dad, he’s not doing too good. He’s yelling a lot, and throwing stuff, and he’s not practicing.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not totally surprising. But it’s not good. You been up there, lately?” Kimy is ordinarily in Dad’s apartment a lot. I think she surreptitiously cleans it. I’ve seen her defiantly ironing Dad’s tux shirts, daring me to comment.

“He won’t let me in!” She’s on the verge of tears. This is very bad. My dad certainly has his problems, but it is monstrous of him to let them affect Kimy.

“But when he’s not there?” Usually I pretend not to know that Kimy is in and out of Dad’s apartment without his knowledge; she pretends that she would never do such a thing. But actually I’m appreciative, now that I no longer live here. Someone has to keep an eye on him.

She looks guilty, and crafty, and slightly alarmed that I am mentioning this. “Okay. Yeah, I go in once, ‘cause I worry about him. He’s got trash everywhere; we’re gonna get bugs if he keep this up. He’s got nothing in that fridge but beer and lemons. He’s got so much

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clothes on the bed I don’t think he sleeps in it. I don’t know what he’s doing. I never seen him this bad since when your mom died.”

“Oh boy. What do you think?” There’s a big crash above our heads, which means Dad has dropped something on the kitchen floor. He’s probably just getting up. “I guess I’d better go up there ”

“Yeah.” Kimy is wistful. “He’s such a nice guy, your dad; I don’t know why he lets it get like this.”

“He’s an alcoholic. That’s what alcoholics do. It’s in their job description: Fall apart, and then keep falling apart.”

She levels her devastating gaze at me. “Speaking of jobs...” “Yes?” Oh shit.

“I don’t think he’s been working.”

“Well, it’s the off-season. He doesn’t work in May.”

“They are touring Europe and he’s here. Also, he don’t pay rent last two months.”

Damn damn damn. “Kimy, why didn’t you call me? That’s awful. Geez.” I am on my feet and down the hall; I grab my backpack and return to the kitchen. I delve around in it and find my checkbook. “How much does he owe you?”

Mrs. Kim is deeply embarrassed. “No, Henry, don’t—he’ll pay it.”

“He can pay me back. C’mon, buddy, it’s okay. Cough it out, now, how much?” She’s not looking at me. “$1,200.00,” she says in a small voice.

“That’s all? What are you doing, buddy, running the Philanthropic Society for the Support of Wayward DeTambles?” I write the check and stick it under her saucer. “You better cash that or I’ll come looking for you.”

“Well, then I won’t cash it and you will have to visit me.”

“I’ll visit you anyway.” I am utterly guilt stricken. “I will bring Clare.” Kimy beams at me. “I hope so. I’m gonna be your maid of honor, right?”

“If Dad doesn’t shape up you can give me away. Actually, that’s a great idea: you can walk me down the aisle, and Clare will be waiting in her tux, and the organist will be playing

Lohengrin....”

“I better buy a dress.”

“Yow. Don’t buy any dresses until I tell you it’s a done deal.” I sigh. “I guess I better go up there and talk to him.” I stand up. In Mrs. Kim’s kitchen I feel enormous, suddenly, as though I’m visiting my old grammar school and marveling over the size of the desks. She stands slowly and follows me to the front door. I hug her. For a moment she seems fragile

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and lost, and I wonder about her life, the telescoping days of cleaning and gardening and bridge playing, but then my own concerns crash back in again. I will come back soon; I can’t spend my entire life hiding in bed with Clare. Kimy watches as I open Dad’s door.

“Hey, Dad? You home?”

There’s a pause, and then, “GO AWAY.”

I walk up the stairs and Mrs. Kim shuts her door.

The first thing that hits me is the smell: something is rotting in here. The living room is devastated. Where are all the books? My parents had tons of books, on music, on history, novels, in French, in German, in Italian: where are they? Even the record and CD collection seems smaller. There are papers all over, junk mail, newspapers, scores, covering the floor. My mother’s piano is coated with dust and there is a vase of long-dead gladiolas mummifying on the windowsill. I walk down the hall, glancing in the bedrooms. Utter chaos; clothes, garbage, more newspapers. In the bathroom a bottle of Michelob lies under the sink and a glossy dry layer of beer varnishes the tile.

In the kitchen my father sits at the table with his back to me, looking out the window at the river. He doesn’t turn around as I enter. He doesn’t look at me when I sit down. But he doesn’t get up and leave, either, so I take it as a sign that conversation may proceed.

“Hi, Dad.” Silence.

“I saw Mrs. Kim, just now. She says you’re not doing too good.” Silence.

“I hear you’re not working.” “It’s May.”

“How come you’re not on tour?”

He finally looks at me. Under the stubbornness there is fright. “I’m on sick leave.” “Since when?”

“March.”

“Paid sick leave?” Silence.

“Are you sick? What’s wrong?”

I think he’s going to ignore me, but then he answers by holding out his hands. They are shaking as though they are in their own tiny earthquake. He’s done it, finally. Twenty-three

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years of determined drinking and he’s destroyed his ability to play the violin. “Oh, Dad. Oh, God. What does Stan say?”

“He says that’s it. The nerves are shot, and they aren’t coming back.”

“Jesus.” We look at each other for an unendurable minute. His face is anguished, and I’m beginning to understand: he has nothing. There is nothing left to hold him, to keep him, to be his life. First Mom, then his music, gone, gone. I never mattered much to begin with, so my belated efforts will be inconsequential. “What happens now?”

Silence. Nothing happens now.

“You can’t just stay up here and drink for the next twenty years.” He looks at the table.

“What about your pension? Workers’ comp? Medicare? AA?” He’s done nothing, let everything slide. Where have I been? “I paid your rent.”

“Oh.” He’s confused. “Didn’t I pay it?”

“No. You owed for two months. Mrs. Kim was very embarrassed. She didn’t want to tell me, and she didn’t want me giving her money, but there’s no sense making your problems her problems.”

“Poor Mrs. Kim.” Tears are coursing down my father’s cheeks. He is old. There’s no other word for it. He’s fifty-seven, and he’s an old man. I am not angry, now. I’m sorry, and frightened for him.

“Dad.” He is looking at me again. “Look. You have to let me do some things for you, okay?” He looks away, out the window again at the infinitely more interesting trees on the other side of the water. “You need to let me see your pension documents and bank statements and all that. You need to let Mrs. Kim and me clean this place. And you need to stop drinking.”

“No.”

“No, what? Everything or just some of it?”

Silence. I’m starting to lose my patience, so I decide to change the subject. “Dad. I’m going to get married.”

Now I have his attention.

“To who? Who would marry you?” He says this, I think, without malice. He’s genuinely curious. I take out my wallet and remove a picture of Clare from its plastic pocket. In the picture Clare is looking out serenely over Lighthouse Beach. Her hair floats like a banner in the breeze and in the early morning light she seems to glow against a background of dark

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trees. Dad takes the picture and studies it carefully. “Her name is Clare Abshire. She’s an artist”

“Well. She’s pretty,” he says grudgingly. This is as close as I’m going to get to a paternal blessing.

“I would like...1 would really like to give her Mom’s wedding and engagement rings. I think Mom would have liked that.”

“How would you know? You probably hardly remember her.”

I don’t want to discuss it, but I feel suddenly determined to have my way. “I see her on a regular basis. I’ve seen her hundreds of times since she died. I see her walking around the neighborhood, with you, with me. She goes to the park and learns scores, she shops, she has coffee with Mara at Tia’s. I see her with Uncle Ish. I see her at Juilliard. I hear her sing!” Dad is gaping at me. I’m destroying him, but I can’t seem to stop. “I have spoken to her. Once I stood next to her on a crowded train, touching her.” Dad is crying. “It’s not always a curse, okay? Sometimes time travel is a great thing. I needed to see her, and sometimes I get to see her. She would have loved Clare, she would have wanted me to be happy, and she would deplore the way you’ve fucked everything up just because she died.”

He sits at the kitchen table and weeps. He cries, not covering his face, but simply lowering his head and letting the tears stream from him. I watch him for a while, the price of losing my temper. Then I go to the bathroom and return with the roll of toilet paper. He takes some, blindly, and blows his nose. Then we sit there for a few minutes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” “What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you could see her? I would’ve liked.. .to know that.”

Why didn’t I tell him? Because any normal father would have figured out by now that the stranger haunting their early married life was really his abnormal, time-traveling son. Because I was scared to: because he hated me for surviving. Because I could secretly feel superior to him for something he saw as a defect. Ugly reasons like that.

“Because I thought it would hurt you.”

“Oh. No. It doesn’t... hurt me; I...it’s good to know she’s there, somewhere. I mean...the worst thing is that she’s gone. So it’s good that she’s out there. Even if I can’t see her.”

“She seems happy, usually.”

“Yes, she was very happy.. .we were happy.”

“Yeah. You were like a different person. I always wondered what it would have been like to grow up with you the way you were, then.”

He stands up, slowly. I remain seated, and he walks unsteadily down the hall and into his

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bedroom. I hear him rummaging around, and then he comes slowly back with a small satin pouch. He reaches into it, and withdraws a dark blue jeweler’s box. He opens it, and takes out the two delicate rings. They rest like seeds in his long, shaking hand. Dad puts his left hand over the right hand that holds the rings, and sits like that for a bit, as though the rings are lightning bugs trapped in his two hands. His eyes are closed. Then he opens his eyes, and reaches out his right hand: I cup my hands together, and he turns the rings onto my waiting palms.

The engagement ring is an emerald, and the dim light from the window is refracted green and white in it. The rings are silver, and they need cleaning. They need wearing, and I know just the girl to wear them.

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BIRTHDAY

Sunday, May 24, 1992 (Clare is 21, Henry is 28)

CLARE: It’s my twenty-first birthday. It’s a perfect summer evening. I’m at Henry’s apartment, in Henry’s bed, reading The Moonstone. Henry is in the tiny kitchenette making dinner. As I don his bathrobe and head for the bathroom I hear him swearing at the blender. I take my time, wash my hair, steam up the mirrors. I think about cutting my hair. How nice it would be to wash it, run a quick comb through it, and presto! all set, ready to rock and roll. I sigh. Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back. I know he loves it as part of me, but I also know that he would be deeply upset if I cut it off. And I would miss it, too.. .it’s just so much effort, sometimes I want to take it off like a wig and set it aside while I go out and play. I comb it carefully, working out the tangles. My hair is heavy when it’s wet. It pulls on my scalp. I prop the bathroom door open to dissipate the steam. Henry is singing something from Carmina Burana; it sounds weird and off key. I emerge from the bathroom and he is settingthe table. “Perfect timing; dinner is served ”

“Just a minute, let me get dressed.”

“You’re fine as you are. Really.” Henry walks around the table, opens the bathrobe, and runs his hands lightly over my breasts.

“Mmm. Dinner will get cold.”

“Dinner is cold. I mean, it’s supposed to be cold.” “Oh....Well, let’s eat.” I’m suddenly exhausted, and cranky.

“Okay.” Henry releases me without comment. He returns to setting out silverware. I watch him for a minute, then pick up my clothes from their various places on the floor and put them on. I sit down at the table; Henry brings out two bowls of soup, pale and thick. “Vichyssoise. This is my grandmother’s recipe.” I take a sip. It’s perfect, buttery and cool. The next course is salmon, with long pieces of asparagus in an olive oil and rosemary marinade. I open my mouth to say something nice about the food and instead say, “Henry— do other people have sex as much as we do?”

Henry considers. “Most people.. .no, I imagine not. Only people who haven’t known each other very long and still can’t believe their luck, I would think. Is it too much?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I say this looking at my plate. I can’t believe I’m saying this; I spent my entire adolescence begging Henry to fuck me and now I’m telling him it’s too much. Henry sits very still.

“Clare, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize; I wasn’t thinking.”

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I look up; Henry looks stricken. I burst out laughing. Henry smiles, a little guilty, but his eyes are twinkling.

“It’s just—you know, there are days when I can’t sit down.”

“Well.. .you just have to say. Say’Not tonight, dear, we’ve already done it twenty-three times today and I would rather read Bleak House.‘”

“And you will meekly cease and desist?”

“I did, just then, didn’t I? That was pretty meek.” “Yeah. But then I felt guilty.”

Henry laughs. “You can’t expect me to help you out there. It may be my only hope: day after day, week after week, I will languish, starving for a kiss, withering away for want of a blow job, and after a while you will look up from your book and realize that I’m actually going to die at your feet if you don’t fuck me immediately but I won’t say a word. Maybe a few little whimpering noises.”

“But—I don’t know, I mean, I’m exhausted, and you seem...fine. Am I abnormal, or something?”

Henry leans across the table and holds out his hands. I place mine in his. “Clare.”

“Yes?”

“It may be indelicate to mention this, but if you will excuse me for saying so, your sex drive far outstrips that of almost all the women I’ve dated. Most women would have cried Uncle and turned on their answering machines months ago. But I should have thought.. .you always seemed into it. But if it’s too much, or you don’t feel like it, you have to say so, because otherwise I’ll be tiptoeing around, wondering if I’m burdening you with my hideous demands.”

“But how much sex is enough?”

“For me? Oh, God. My idea of the perfect life would be if we just stayed in bed all the time. We could make love more or less continuously, and only get up to bring in supplies, you know, fresh water and fruit to prevent scurvy, and make occasional trips to the bathroom to shave before diving back into bed. And once in a while we could change the sheets. And go to the movies to prevent bedsores. And running. I would still have to run every morning.” Running is a religion with Henry.

“How come running? Since you’d be getting so much exercise anyway?”

He is suddenly serious. “Because quite frequently my life depends on running faster than whoever’s chasing me.”

“Oh.” Now it’s my turn to be abashed, because I already knew that. “But—how do I put

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this?—you never seem to go anywhere—that is, since I met you here in the present you’ve hardly time traveled at all. Have you?”

“Well, at Christmas, you saw that. And around Thanksgiving. You were in Michigan, and I didn’t mention it because it was depressing.”

“You were watching the accident?”

Henry stares at me. “Actually, I was. How did you know?”

“A few years ago you showed up at Meadowlark on Christmas Eve and told me about it. You were really upset.”

“Yeah. I remember being unhappy just seeing that date on the List, thinking, gee, an extra Christmas to get through. Plus that was a bad one in regular time; I ended up with alcohol poisoning and had to have my stomach pumped. I hope I didn’t ruin yours.”

“No.. .I was happy to see you. And you were telling me something that was important, personal, even though you were careful not to tell any names or places. It was still your real life, and I was desperate for anything that helped me believe you were real and not some psychosis of mine. That’s also why I was always touching you.” I laugh. “I never realized how difficult I was making things for you. I mean, I did everything I could think of, and you were just cool as could be. You must have been dying”

“For example?” “What’s for dessert?”

Henry dutifully gets up and brings dessert. It’s mango ice cream with raspberries. It has one little candle sticking out of it at an angle; Henry sings Happy Birthday and I giggle because he’s so off-key; I make a wish and blow out the candle. The ice cream tastes superb; I am very cheerful, and I scan my memory for an especially egregious episode of Henry baiting.

“Okay. This was the worst. When I was sixteen, I was waiting for you late one night. It was about eleven o’clock, and there was a new moon, so it was pretty dark in the clearing. And I was kind of annoyed with you, because you were resolutely treating me like—a child, or a pal, or whatever—and I was just crazy to lose my virginity. I suddenly got the idea that I would hide your clothes....”

“Oh, no.”

“Yes. So I moved the clothes to a different spot...” I’m a little ashamed of this story, but it’s too late now.

“And?”

“And you appeared, and I basically teased you until you couldn’t take it.” “And?”

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“And you jumped me and pinned me, and for about thirty seconds we both thought ‘This is it.’ I mean, it wasn’t like you would’ve been raping me, because I was absolutely asking for it. But you got this look on your face, and you said ‘No,’ and you got up and walked away. You walked right through the Meadow into the trees and I didn’t see you again for three weeks.”

“Wow. That’s a better man than I.”

“I was so chastened by the whole thing that I made a huge effort to behave myself for the next two years.”

“Thank goodness. I can’t imagine having to exercise that much willpower on a regular basis.”

“Ah, but you will, that’s the amazing part. For a long time I actually thought you were not attracted to me. Of course, if we are going to spend our whole lives in bed, I suppose you can exercise a little restraint on your jaunts into my past.”

“Well, you know, I’m not kidding about wanting that much sex. I mean, I realize that it’s not practical. But I’ve been wanting to tell you: I feel so different. I just.. .feel so connected to you. And I think that it holds me here, in the present. Being physically connected the way that we are, it’s kind of rewiring my brain.” Henry is stroking my hand with his fingertips. He looks up. “I have something for you. Come and sit over here.”

I get up and follow him into the living room. He’s turned the bed into the couch and I sit down. The sun is setting and the room is washed in rose and tangerine light. Henry opens his desk, reaches into a pigeonhole, and produces a little satin bag. He sits slightly apart from me; our knees are touching. He must be able to hear my heart beating, I think. It’s come to this, I think. Henry takes my hands and looks at me gravely. I’ve waited for this so long and here it is and I’m frightened.

“Clare?”

“Yes?” My voice is small and scared.

“You know that I love you. Will you marry me?”

“Yes...Henry.” I have an overwhelming sense of deja vu. “But you know, really.. .1 already have.”

Sunday, May 31, 1992 (Clare is 21, Henry is 28)

CLARE: Henry and I are standing in the vestibule of the apartment building he grew up in. We’re a little late already, but we are just standing here; Henry is leaning against the mailboxes and breathing slowly with his eyes closed.

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“Don’t worry,” I say. “It can’t be any worse than you meeting Mama.” “Your parents were very nice to me.”

“But Mama is.. .unpredictable.”

“So’s Dad.” Henry inserts his key into the front door lock and we walk up one flight of stairs and Henry knocks on the door of an apartment. Immediately it is opened by a tiny old Korean woman: Kimy. She’s wearing a blue silk dress and bright red lipstick, and her eyebrows have been drawn on a little lopsided. Her hair is salt-and-pepper gray; it’s braided and coiled into two buns at her ears. For some reason she reminds me of Ruth Gordon. She comes up to my shoulder, and she tilts her head back and says, “Ohhh, Henry, she’s bee-yoo-tiful!” I can feel myself turn red. Henry says, “Kimy, where are your manners?” and Kimy laughs and says, “Hello, Miss Clare Abshire!” and I say “Hello, Mrs. Kim.” We smile at each other, and she says, “Oh, you got to call me Kimy, everybody call me Kimy.” I nod and follow her into the living room and there’s Henry’s dad, sitting in an armchair.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. Henry’s dad is thin, tall, angular, and tired. He doesn’t look much like Henry. He has short gray hair, dark eyes, a long nose, and a thin mouth whose corners turn down a little. He’s sitting all bunched up in his chair, and I notice his hands, long elegant hands that lie in his lap like a cat napping.

Henry coughs and says, “Dad, this is Clare Abshire. Clare, this is my father, Richard DeTamble.”

Mr. DeTamble slowly extends one of his hands, and I step forward and shake it. It’s ice cold. “Hello, Mr. DeTamble. It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

“Is it? Henry must not have told you very much about me, then.” His voice is hoarse and amused. “I will have to capitalize on your optimism. Come and sit down by me. Kimy, may we have something to drink?”

“I was just going to ask everyone—Clare, what would you like? I made sangria, you like that? Henry, how ‘bout you? Sangria? Okay. Richard, you like a beer?”

Everyone seems to pause for a moment. Then Mr. DeTamble says, “No, Kimy, I think I’ll just have tea, if you don’t mind making it.” Kimy smiles and disappears into the kitchen, and Mr. DeTamble turns to me and says, “I have a bit of a cold. I’ve taken some of that cold medicine, but I’m afraid it just makes me drowsy.”

Henry is sitting on the couch, watching us. All the furniture is white and looks as though it was bought at a JCPenney around 1945. The upholstery is protected with clear plastic, and there are vinyl runners over the white carpet. There’s a fireplace that looks as though it’s never used; above it is a beautiful ink painting of bamboo in wind.

“That’s a wonderful painting,” I say, because no one is saying anything.

Mr. DeTamble seems pleased. “Do you like it? Annette and I brought it back from Japan

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in 1962. We bought it in Kyoto, but the original is from China. We thought Kimy and Dong would like it. It is a seventeenth-century copy of a much older painting.”

“Tell Clare about the poem ” Henry says.

“Yes; the poem goes something like this: ‘Bamboo without mind, yet sends thoughts soaring among clouds. Standing on the lone mountain, quiet, dignified, it typifies the will of a gentleman. —Painted and written with a light heart, Wu Chen.’”

“That’s lovely,” I say. Kimy comes in with drinks on a tray, and Henry and I each take a glass of sangria while Mr. DeTamble carefully grasps his tea with both hands; the cup rattles against the saucer as he sets it on the table beside him. Kimy sits in a small armchair by the fireplace and sips her sangria. I taste mine and realize that it’s really strong. Henry glances at me and raises his eyebrows.

Kimy says, “Do you like gardens, Clare?” “Um, yes,” I say. “My mother is a gardener.”

“You got to come out before dinner and see the backyard. All my peonies are blooming, and we got to show you the river.”

“That sounds nice.” We all troop out to the yard. I admire the Chicago River, placidly flowing at the foot of a precarious stairway; I admire the peonies. Kimy asks, “What kind of garden does your mom have? Does she grow roses?” Kimy has a tiny but well-ordered rose garden, all hybrid teas as far as I can tell.

“She does have a rose garden. Actually, Mama’s real passion is irises.”

“Oh. I got irises. They’re over there.” Kimy points to a clump of iris. “I need to divide them, you think your mom would like some?”

“I don’t know. I could ask.” Mama has more than two hundred varieties of iris. I catch Henry smiling behind Kimy’s back and I frown at him. “I could ask her if she wants to trade you some of hers; she has some that she bred herself, and she likes to give them to friends.”

“Your mother breeds iris?” Mr. DeTamble asks.

“Uh-huh. She also breeds tulips, but the irises are her favorites.” “She is a professional gardener?”

“No,” I say. “Just an amateur. She has a gardener who does most of the work and there’s a bunch of people who come in and mow and weed and all that.”

“Must be a big yard,” Kimy says. She leads the way back into the apartment. In the kitchen a timer goes off. “Okay,” says Kimy. “It’s time to eat.” I ask if I can help but Kimy waves me into a chair. I sit across from Henry. His dad is on my right and Kimy’s empty chair is on my left. I notice that Mr. DeTamble is wearing a sweater, even though it’s pretty warm in here. Kimy has very pretty china; there are hummingbirds painted on it. Each of us

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has a sweating cold glass of water. Kimy pours us white wine. She hesitates at Henry’s dad’s glass but passes him over when he shakes his head. She brings out salads and sits down. Mr. DeTamble raises his water glass. “To the happy couple,” he says. “Happy couple,” says Kimy, and we all touch glasses and drink. Kimy says, “So, Clare, Henry say you are an artist. What kind of artist?”

“I make paper. Paper sculptures.”

“Ohh. You have to show me sometime ‘cause I don’t know about that. Like origami?” “Uh, no.”

Henry intercedes. “They’re like that German artist we saw down at the Art Institute, you know, Anselm Kiefer. Big dark scary paper sculptures.”

Kimy looks puzzled. “Why would a pretty girl like you make ugly things like that?” Henry laughs. “It’s art, Kimy. Besides, they’re beautiful.”

“I use a lot of flowers,” I tell Kimy. “If you give me your dead roses I’ll put them in the piece I’m working on now.”

“Okay,” she says. “What is it?”

“A giant crow made out of roses, hair, and daylily fiber.” “Huh. How come a crow? Crows are bad luck.”

“They are? I think they’re gorgeous.”

Mr. DeTamble raises one eyebrow and for just a second he does look like Henry; he says, “You have peculiar ideas about beauty.”

Kimy gets up and clears our salad plates and brings in a bowl of green beans and a steaming plate of “Roast Duck with Raspberry Pink Peppercorn Sauce.” It’s heavenly. I realize where Henry learned to cook. “What you think?” Kimy demands. “It’s delicious, Kimy,” says Mr. DeTamble, and I echo his praise. “Maybe cut down on the sugar?” Henry asks. “Yeah, I think so, too,” says Kimy. “It’s really tender though,” Henry says, and Kimy grins. I stretch out my hand to pick up my wine glass. Mr. DeTamble nods at me and says, “Annette’s ring looks well on you.”

“It’s very beautiful. Thank you for letting me have it.”

“There’s a lot of history in that ring, and the wedding band that goes with it. It was made in Paris in 1823 for my great-great-great-grandmother, whose name was Jeanne. It came to America in 1920 with my grandmother, Yvette, and it’s been sitting in a drawer since 1969, when Annette died. It’s good to see it back out in the light of day.”

I look at the ring, and think, Henry’s mom was wearing this when she died. I glance at Henry, who seems to be thinking the same thing, and at Mr. DeTamble, who is eating his duck. “Tell me about Annette,” I ask Mr. DeTamble.

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He puts down his fork and leans his elbows on the table, puts his hands against his forehead. He peers at me from behind his hands. “Well, I’m sure Henry must have told you something.”

“Yes. A little. I grew up listening to her records; my parents are fans of hers.”

Mr. DeTamble smiles. “Ah. Well then, you know that Annette had the most marvelous voice...rich, and pure, such a voice, and such range...she could express her soul with that voice, whenever I listened to her I felt my life meant more than mere biology... she could really hear, she understood structure and she could analyze exactly what it was about a piece of music that had to be rendered just so...she was a very emotional person, Annette. She brought that out in other people. After she died I don’t think I ever really felt anything again.”

He pauses. I can’t look at Mr. DeTamble so I look at Henry. He’s staring at his father with an expression of such sadness that I look at my plate.

Mr. DeTamble says, “But you asked about Annette, not about me. She was kind, and she was a great artist; you don’t often find that those go together. Annette made people happy; she was happy herself. She enjoyed life. I only saw her cry twice: once when I gave her that ring and the other time when she had Henry.”

Another pause. Finally I say, “You were very lucky.”

He smiles, still shielding his face in his hands. “Well, we were and we weren’t. One minute we had everything we could dream of, and the next minute she was in pieces on the expressway.” Henry winces.

“But don’t you think,” I persist, “that it’s better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?”

Mr. DeTamble regards me. He takes his hands away from his face and stares. Then he says, “I’ve often wondered about that. Do you believe that?”

I think about my childhood, all the waiting, and wondering, and the joy of seeing Henry walking through the Meadow after not seeing him for weeks, months, and I think about what it was like not to see him for two years and then to find him standing in the Reading Room at the Newberry Library: the joy of being able to touch him, the luxury of knowing where he is, of knowing he loves me. “Yes,” I say. “I do.” I meet Henry’s eyes and smile.

Mr. DeTamble nods. “Henry has chosen well.” Kimy gets up to bring coffee and while she’s in the kitchen Mr. DeTamble continues, “He isn’t calibrated to bring peace to anyone’s life. In fact, he is in many ways the opposite of his mother: unreliable, volatile, and not even especially concerned with anyone but himself. Tell me, Clare: why on earth would a lovely girl like you want to marry Henry?”

Everything in the room seems to hold its breath. Henry stiffens but doesn’t say anything. I lean forward and smile at Mr. DeTamble and say, with enthusiasm, as though he has asked

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me what flavor of ice cream I like best: “Because he’s really, really good in bed.” In the kitchen there’s a howl of laughter. Mr. DeTamble glances at Henry, who raises his eyebrows and grins, and finally even Mr. DeTamble smiles, and says, “ Touché, my dear.”

Later, after we have drunk our coffee and eaten Kimy’s perfect almond torte, after Kimy has shown me photographs of Henry as a baby, a toddler, a high school senior (to his extreme embarrassment); after Kimy has extracted more information about my family (“How many rooms? That many! Hey, buddy, how come you don’t tell me she beautiful and rich?”), we all stand at the front door and I thank Kimy for dinner and say good night to Mr. DeTamble.

“It was a pleasure, Clare,” he says. “But you must call me Richard.”

“Thank you.. .Richard.” He takes my hand for a moment and for just that moment I see him as Annette must have seen him, years ago—and then it’s gone and he nods awkwardly at Henry, who kisses Kimy, and we walk downstairs and into the summer evening. It seems like years have passed since we went inside.

“Whoosh,” says Henry. “I died a thousand deaths, just watching that.” “Was I okay?”

“Okay? You were brilliant! He loved you!”

We are walking down the street, holding hands. There’s a playground at the end of the block and I run to the swings and climb on, and Henry takes the one next to me, facing the opposite direction, and we swing higher and higher, passing each other, sometimes in synch and sometimes streaming past each other so fast it seems like we’re going to collide, and we laugh, and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.

Wednesday, June 10, 1992 (Clare is 21)

CLARE: I’m sitting by myself at a tiny table in the front window of Cafe Peregolisi, a venerable little rat hole with excellent coffee. I’m supposed to be working on a paper on Alice in Wonderland for the History of the Grotesque class I’m taking this summer; insteadI’m daydreaming, staring idly at the natives, who are bustling and hustling in the early evening of Halsted Street. I don’t often come to Boy’s Town. I figure I will get more work done if I’m somewhere that no one I know will think to look for me. Henry has disappeared. He’s not home and he wasn’t at work today. I am trying not to worry about it. I am trying to cultivate a nonchalant and carefree attitude. Henry can take care of himself. Just because I have no idea where he might be doesn’t mean anything is wrong. Who knows? Maybe he’s with me.

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Someone is standing on the other side of the street, waving. I squint, focus, and realize that it’s the short black woman who was with Ingrid that night at the Aragon. Celia. I wave back, and she crosses the street. Suddenly she’s standing in front of me. She is so small that her face is level with mine, although I am sitting and she is standing.

“Hi, Clare,” Celia says. Her voice is like butter. I want to wrap myself in her voice and go to sleep.

“Hello, Celia. Have a seat.” She sits, opposite me, and I realize that all of her shortness is in her legs; sitting down she is much more normal looking.

“I hear tell you got engaged,” she says.

I hold up my left hand, show her the ring. The waiter slouches over to us and Celia orders Turkish coffee. She looks at me, and gives me a sly smile. Her teeth are white and long and crooked. Her eyes are large and her eyelids hover halfway closed as though she’s falling asleep. Her dreadlocks are piled high and decorated with pink chopsticks that match her shiny pink dress.

“You’re either brave or crazy,” she says. “So people tell me.”

“Well, by now you ought to know.”

I smile, shrug, sip my coffee, which is room temperature and too sweet. Celia says, “Do you know where Henry is right now?”

“No. Do you know where Ingrid is right now?”

“Uh-huh,” Celia says. “She’s sitting on a bar stool in Berlin, waiting on me.” She checks her watch. “I’m late.” The light from the street turns her burnt-umber skin blue and then purple. She looks like a glamorous Martian. She smiles at me. “Henry is running down Broadway in his birthday suit with a pack of skinheads on his tail” Oh, no.

The waiter brings Celia’s coffee and I point at my cup. He refills it and I carefully measure a teaspoon of sugar in and stir. Celia stands a demi-tasse spoon straight up in the tiny cup of Turkish coffee. It is black and dense as molasses. Once upon a time there were three little sisters. ..and they lived at the bottom of a well... Why did they live at the bottom of a well?...It was a treacle well.

Celia is waiting for me to say something. Curtsy while you’re thinking what to say. It saves time. “Really?” I say. Oh, brilliant, Clare.

“You don’t seem too worried. My man were running around in his altogether like that I would wonder a little bit, myself.”

“Yeah, well, Henry’s not exactly the most average person.”

Celia laughs. “You can say that again, sister.” How much does she know? Does Ingrid

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know? Celia leans toward me, sips her coffee, opens her eyes wide, raises her eyebrows and purses her lips. “You really gonna marry him?”

A mad impulse makes me say, “If you don’t believe me you can watch me do it. Come to the wedding.”

Celia shakes her head. “Me? You know, Henry don’t like me at all. Not one bit.” “Well, you don’t seem to be a big fan of his, either.”

Celia grins. “I am now. He dumped Miss Ingrid Carmichel hard, and I’m picking up the pieces.” She glances at her watch again. “Speaking of whom, I am late for my date.” Celia stands up, and says, “Why don’t you come along?”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“Come on, girl. You and Ingrid ought to get to know each other. You have so much in common. We’ll have a little bachelorette party.”

“In Berlin?”

Celia laughs. “Not the city. The bar.” Her laugh is caramel; it seems to emanate from the body of someone much larger. I don’t want her to go, but....

“No, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” I look Celia in the eye. “It seems mean.” Her gaze holds me, and I think of snakes, of cats. Do cats eat bats?.. .Do bats eat cats? “Besides, I have to finish this.”

Celia flashes a look at my notebook. “What, is that homework? Ohh, it’s a school night! Now just listen to your big sister Celia, who knows what’s best for little schoolgirls—hey, you old enough to drink?”

“Yes ” I tell her proudly. “As of three weeks ago.”

Celia leans close to me. She smells like cinnamon. “Come on come on come on. You got to live it up a little before you settle down with Mr. Librarian Man. Come oooooonnnn, Clare. Before you know it you be up to your ears in Librarian babies shitting their Pampers full of that Dewey decimal system.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Then don’t say nothin‘, just come on.” Celia is packing up my books and manages to knock over the little pitcher of milk. I start to mop it up but Celia just marches out of the cafe holding my books. I rush after her.

“Celia, don’t, I need those—” For someone with short legs and five-inch heels she’s moving fast.

“Uh-uh, I’m not giving ‘em back till you promise you’re coming with me.”

“Ingrid won’t like it.” We are walking in step, heading south on Halstead toward

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Belmont. I don’t want to see Ingrid. The first and last time I saw her was the Violent Femmes concert and that’s fine with me.

“‘Course she will. Ingrid’s been very curious about you.” We turn onto Belmont, walk past tattoo parlors, Indian restaurants, leather shops and storefront churches. We walk under the El and there’s Berlin. It doesn’t look too enticing on the outside; the windows are painted black and I can hear disco pulsating from the darkness behind the skinny freckled guy who cards me but not Celia, stamps our hands and suffers us to enter the abyss.

As my eyes adjust I realize that the entire place is full of women. Women are crowded around the tiny stage watching a female stripper strutting in a red sequined G-string and pasties. Women are laughing and flirting at the bar. It’s Ladies’ Night. Celia is pulling me toward a table. Ingrid is sitting there by herself with a tall glass of sky blue liquid in front of her. She looks up and I can tell that she’s not too pleased to see me. Celia kisses Ingrid and waves me to a chair. I remain standing.

“Hey, baby,” Celia says to Ingrid.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” says Ingrid. “What did you bring her for?” They both ignore me. Celia still has her arms wrapped around my books.

“It’s cool, Ingrid, she’s all right. I thought y’all might want to become better acquainted, that’s all.” Celia seems almost apologetic, but even I can see that she’s enjoying Ingrid’s discomfort.

Ingrid glares at me. “Why did you come? To gloat?” She leans back in her chair and tilts her chin up. Ingrid looks like a blond vampire, black

velvet jacket and blood red lips. She is ravishing. I feel like a small-town school girl. I hold out my hands to Celia and she gives me my books.

“I was coerced. I’m leaving now.” I begin to turn away but Ingrid shoots out a hand and grabs my arm.

“Wait a minute—” She wrenches my left hand toward her, and I stumble and my books go flying. I pull my hand back and Ingrid says,“— you’re engaged?” and I realize that she’s looking at Henry’s ring.

I say nothing. Ingrid turns to Celia. “You knew, didn’t you?” Celia looks down at the table, says nothing. “You brought her here to rub it in, you bitch.” Her voice is quiet. I can hardly hear her over the pulsing music.

“No, Ing, I just—”

“Fuck you, Celia.” Ingrid stands up. For a moment her face is close to mine and I imagine Henry kissing those red lips. Ingrid stares at me. She says, “You tell Henry he can go to hell. And tell him I’ll see him there.” She stalks out. Celia is sitting with her face in her hands.

I begin to gather up my books. As I turn to go Celia says, “Wait.”

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I wait.

Celia says, “I’m sorry, Clare.” I shrug. I walk to the door, and when I turn back I see that Celia is sitting alone at the table, sipping Ingrid’s blue drink and leaning her face against her hand. She is not looking at me.

Out on the street I walk faster and faster until I am at my car, and then I drive home and I go to my room and I lie on my bed and I dial Henry’s number but he’s not home and I turn out the light but I don’t sleep.

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