
school bus driver who didn't see him and was gawking at the accident. The truck
driver had two broken legs. Meanwhile, I was completely absent from the scene
for ten minutes and forty-seven seconds. I don't remember where I went; maybe it
was only a second or two for me. Traffic came to a complete halt. Ambulances
were trying to come from three different directions and couldn't get near us for
half an hour. Paramedics came running on foot. I appeared on the shoulder. The
only person who saw me appear was a little girl; she was in the back seat of a
green Chevrolet station wagon. Her mouth opened, and she just stared and
stared."
"But-Henry, you were-you said you don't remember. And how could you
know this anyway? Ten minutes and forty-seven seconds? Exactly?"
I am quiet for a while, searching for the best way to explain. "You know about
gravity, right? The larger something is, the more mass it has, the more
gravitational pull it exerts? It pulls smaller things to it, and they orbit around and
around?"
"Yes...."
"My mother dying...it's the pivotal thing...everything else goes around and
around it...I dream about it, and I also-time travel to it. Over and over. If you
could be there, and could hover over the scene of the accident, and you could see
every detail of it, all the people, cars, trees, snowdrifts-if you had enough time to
really look at everything, you would see me. I am in cars, behind bushes, on the
bridge, in a tree. I have seen it from every angle, I am even a participant in the
aftermath: I called the airport from a nearby gas station to page my father with
the message to come immediately to the hospital. I sat in the hospital waiting
room and watched my father walk through on his way to find me. He looks gray
and ravaged. I walked along the shoulder of the road, waiting for my young self
to appear, and I put a blanket around my thin child's shoulders. I looked into my
small uncomprehending face, and I thought...I thought...."I am weeping now.
Clare wraps her arms around me and I cry soundlessly into her
mohair-sweatered breasts.
"What? What, Henry?"
"I thought, I should have died, too!"
We hold each other. I gradually get hold of myself. I have made a mess of
Clare's sweater. She goes to the laundry room and comes back wearing one of
Alicia's white polyester chamber music playing shirts. Alicia is only fourteen, but
she's already taller and bigger than Clare. I stare at Clare, standing before me,
and I am sorry to be here, sorry to ruin her Christmas.
"I'm sorry, Clare. I didn't mean to put all this sadness on you. I just find
Christmas.. .difficult."
"Oh, Henry! I'm so glad you're here, and, you know, I'd rather know-I mean,
you just come out of nowhere, and disappear, and if I know things, about your
life, you seem more...real. Even terrible things.. .I need to know as much as you
can say." Alicia is calling down the stairs for Clare. It is time for Clare to join her
family, to celebrate Christmas. I stand, and we kiss, cautiously, and Clare says
"Coming!" and gives me a smile and then she's running up the stairs. I prop the
chair under the door again and settle in for a long night.
CHRISTMAS EVE, TWO
Saturday, December 24, 1988 (Henry is 25)
Henry: I call Dad and ask if he wants me to come over for dinner after the
Christmas matinee concert. He makes a half-hearted attempt at inviting me but I
back out, to his relief. The Official DeTamble Day of Mourning will be conducted
in multiple locations this year. Mrs. Kim has gone to Korea to visit her sisters;
I've been watering her plants and taking in her mail. I call Ingrid Carmichel and
ask her to come out with me and she reminds me, crisply, that it's Christmas Eve
and some people have families to kowtow to. I run through my address book.
Everyone is out of town, or in town with their visiting relatives. I should have
gone to see Gram and Gramps. Then I remember they're in Florida. It's 2:53 in the
afternoon and stores are closing down. I buy a bottle of schnapps at Al's and stow
it in my overcoat pocket. Then I hop on the El at Belmont and ride downtown. It's
a gray day, and cold. The train is half full, mostly people with their kids going
down to see Marshall Field's Christmas windows and do last minute shopping at
Water Tower Place. I get off at Randolph and Walk east to Grant Park. I stand on
the IC overpass for a while, drinking, and then I walk down to the skating rink. A
few couples and little kids are skating. The kids chase each other and skate
backward and do figure eights. I rent a pair of more-or-less my size skates, lace
them on, and walk onto the ice. I skate the perimeter of the rink, smoothly and
without thinking too much. Repetition, movement, balance, cold air. It's nice. The
sun is setting. I skate for an hour or so, then return the skates, pull on my boots,
and walk.
I walk west on Randolph, and south on Michigan Avenue, past the Art
Institute. The lions are decked out in Christmas wreathes. I walk down
Columbus Drive. Grant Park is empty, except for the crows, which strut and
circle over the evening-blue snow. The streetlights tint the sky orange above me;
it's a deep cerulean blue over the lake. At Buckingham Fountain I stand until the
cold becomes unbearable watching seagulls wheeling and diving, fighting over a
loaf of bread somebody has left for them. A mounted policeman rides slowly
around the fountain once and then sedately continues south.
I walk. My boots are not quite waterproof, and despite my several sweaters
my overcoat is a bit thin for the dropping temperature. Not enough body fat; I'm
always cold from November to April. I walk along Harrison, over to State Street. I
pass the Pacific Garden Mission, where the homeless have gathered for shelter
and dinner. I wonder what they're having; I wonder if there's any festivity, there,
in the shelter. There are few cars. I don't have a watch, but I guess that it's about
seven. I've noticed lately that my sense of time passing is different; it seems to
run slower than other people's. An afternoon can be like a day to me; an El ride
can be an epic journey. Today is interminable. I have managed to get through
most of the day without thinking, too much, about Mom, about the accident,
about all of it...but now, in the evening, walking, it is catching up with me. I
realize I'm hungry. The alcohol has worn off. I'm almost at Adams, and I mentally
review the amount of cash I have on me and decide to splurge on dinner at the
Berghoff a venerable German restaurant famous for its brewery.
The Berghoff is warm, and noisy. There are quite a few people, eating and
standing around. The legendary Berghoff waiters are bustling importantly from
kitchen to table. I stand in line, thawing out, amidst chattering families and
couples. Eventually I am led to a small table in the main dining room, toward the
back. I order a dark beer and a plate of duck wursts with spaetzle. When the food
comes, I eat slowly. I polish off all the bread, too, and realize that I can't
remember eating lunch. This is good, I'm taking care of myself, I'm not being an
idiot, I'm remembering to eat dinner. I lean back in my chair and survey the
room. Under the high ceilings, dark paneling, and murals of boats, middle-aged
couples eat their dinners. They have spent the afternoon shopping, or at the
symphony, and they talk pleasantly of the presents they have bought, their
grandchildren, plane tickets and arrival times, Mozart. I have an urge to go to the
symphony, now, but there's no evening program. Dad is probably on his way
home from Orchestra Hall. I would sit in the upper reaches of the uppermost
balcony (the best place to sit, acoustically) and listen to Das Lied von der Erde, or
Beethoven, or something similarly un-Christmasy. Oh well. Maybe next year. I
have a sudden glimpse of all the Christmases of my life lined up one after
another, waiting to be gotten through, and despair floods me. No. I wish for a
moment that Time would lift me out of this day, and into some more benign one.
But then I feel guilty for wanting to avoid the sadness; dead people need us to
remember them, even if it eats us, even if all we can do is say I'm sorry until it is
as meaningless as air. I don't want to burden this warm festive restaurant with
grief that I would have to recall the next time I'm here with Gram and Gramps, so
I pay and leave.
Back on the street, I stand pondering. I don't want to go home. I want to be
with people, I want to be distracted. I suddenly think of the Get Me High
Lounge, a place where anything can happen, a haven for eccentricity. Perfect. I
walk over to Water Tower Place and catch the #66 Chicago Avenue bus, get off at
Damen, and take the #50 bus north. The bus smells of vomit, and I'm the only
passenger. The driver is singing Silent Night in a smooth church tenor, and I wish
him a Merry Christmas as I step off the bus at Wabansia. As I walk past the Fix-It
shop snow begins to fall, and I catch the big wet flakes on the tips of my fingers. I
can hear music leaking out of the bar. The abandoned ghost train track looms
over the street in the sodium vapor glare and as I open the door someone starts
to blow a trumpet and hot jazz smacks me in the chest. I walk into it like a
drowning man, which is what I have come here to be.
There are about ten people in the place, counting Mia, the bartender. Three
musicians, trumpet, standing bass, and clarinet, occupy the tiny stage, and the
customers are all sitting at the bar. The musicians are playing furiously, swinging
at maximum volume like sonic dervishes and as I sit and listen I make out the
melody line of White Christmas. Mia comes over and stares at me and I shout
"Whiskey and water!" at the top of my voice and she bawls "House?" and I yell
"Okay!" and she turns to mix it. There is an abrupt halt to the music. The phone
rings,