ainst
the bright Meadow. "Where is the rock?" Grandma says. "I want to sit down " I
guide her to the rock, help her to sit. She turns her face in Henry's direction and
stiffens. "Who's there?" she asks me, urgency in her voice. "No one " I lie.
"There's a man, there," she says, nodding toward Henry. He looks at me with
an expression that seems to mean Go ahead. Tell her. A dog is barking in the
woods. I hesitate.
"Clare," Grandma says. She sounds scared.
"Introduce us," Henry says, quietly.
Grandma is still, waiting. I put my arm around her shoulders. "It's okay,
Grandma," I say. "This is my friend Henry. He's the one I told you about." Henry
walks over to us and holds out his hand. I place Grandma's hand in his.
"Elizabeth Meagram," I say to Henry.
"So you're the one," Grandma says.
"Yes," Henry replies, and this Yes falls into my ears like balm. Yes.
"May I?" She gestures with her hands toward Henry.
"Shall I sit next to you?" Henry sits on the rock. I guide Grandma's hand to his
face. He watches my face as she touches his. "That tickles," Henry says to
Grandma.
"Sandpaper," she says as she runs her fingertips across his unshaven chin.
"You're not a boy," she says.
"No."
"How old are you?"
"I'm eight years older than Clare."
She looks puzzled. "Twenty-five?" I look at Henry's salt and pepper hair, at
the creases around his eyes. He looks about forty, maybe older.
"Twenty-five," he says firmly. Somewhere out there, it's true.
"Clare tells me she's going to marry you," my grandmother says to Henry.
He smiles at me. "Yes, we're going to get married. In a few years, when Clare
is out of school."
"In my day, gentlemen came to dinner and met the family."
"Our situation is...unorthodox. That hasn't been possible."
"I don't see why not. If you're going to cavort around in meadows with my
granddaughter you can certainly come up to the house and be inspected by her
parents."
"I'd be delighted to," Henry says, standing up, "but I'm afraid right now I
have a train to catch."
"Just a moment, young man-" Grandma begins, as Henry says, "Goodbye,
Mrs. Meagram. It was great to finally meet you. Clare, I'm sorry I can't stay
longer-" I reach out to Henry but there's the noise like all the sound is being
sucked out of the world and he's already gone. I turn to Grandma. She's sitting on
the rock with her hands stretched out, an expression of utter bewilderment on her
face.
"What happened?" she asks me, and I begin to explain. When I am finished
she sits with her head bowed, twisting her arthritic fingers into strange shapes.
Finally she raises her face toward me. "But Clare," says my grandmother, "he
must be a demon." She says it matter-of-factly, as though she's telling me that my
coat's buttoned up wrong, or that it's time for lunch.
What can I say? "I've thought of that," I tell her. I take her hands to stop her
from rubbing them red. "But Henry is good. He doesn't feel like a demon."
Grandma smiles. "You talk as though you've met a peck of them."
"Don't you think a real demon would be sort of-demonic?"
"I think he would be nice as pie if he wanted to be."
I choose my words carefully. "Henry told me once that his doctor thinks he's a
new kind of human. You know, sort of the next step in evolution,"
Grandma shakes her head. "That is just as bad as being a demon. Goodness,
Clare, why in the world would you want to marry such a person? Think of the
children you would have! Popping into next week and back before breakfast!"
I laugh. "But it will be exciting! Like Mary Poppins, or Peter Pan."
She squeezes my hands just a little. "Think for a minute, darling: in fairy tales
it's always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at
home and wait for the children to fly in the window."
I look at the pile of clothes lying crumpled on the ground where Henry has
left them. I pick them up and fold them. "Just a minute," I say, and I find the
clothes box and put Henry's clothes in it. "Let's go back to the house. It's past
lunchtime." I help her off the rock. The wind is roaring in the grass, and we bend
into it and make our way toward the house. When we come to the rise I turn and
look back over the clearing. It's empty.
A few nights later, I am sitting by Grandma's bed, reading Mrs. Dalloway to
her. It's evening. I look up; Grandma seems to be asleep. I stop reading, and close
the book. Her eyes open.
"Hello," I say.
"Do you ever miss him?" she asks me.
"Every day. Every minute."
"Every minute," she says. "Yes. It's that way, isn't it?" She turns on her side
and burrows into the pillow.
"Good night," I say, turning out the lamp. As I stand in the dark looking down
at Grandma in her bed, self-pity floods me as though I have been injected with it.
It's that way, isn't it? Isn't it.
EAT OR BE EATEN
Saturday, November 30, 1991 (Henry is 28, Clare is 20)
Henry: Clare has invited me to dinner at her apartment. Charisse, Clare's
roommate, and Gomez, Charisse's boyfriend, will also be dining. At 6:59 p.m.
Central Standard Time, I stand in my Sunday best in Clare's vestibule with my
finger on her buzzer, fragrant yellow freesia and an Australian Cabernet in my
other arm, and my heart in my mouth. I have not been to Clare's before, nor have
I met any of her friends. I have no idea what to expect.
The buzzer makes a horrible sound and I open the door. "All the way up!"
hollers a deep male voice. I plod up four flights of stairs. The person attached to
the voice is tall and blond, sports the world's most immaculate pompadour and a
cigarette and is wearing a Solidarnosc T-shirt. He seems familiar, but I can't place
him. For a person named Gomez he looks very...Polish. I find out later that his
real name is Jan Gomolinski.
"Welcome, Library Boy!" Gomez booms.
"Comrade!" I reply, and hand him the flowers and the wine. We eyeball each
other, achieve detente, and with a flourish Gomez ushers me into the apartment.
It's one of those wonderful endless railroad apartments from the twenties-a
long hallway with rooms attached almost as afterthoughts. There are two
aesthetics at work here, funky and Victorian. This plays out in the spectacle of
antique petit point chairs with heavy carved legs next to velvet Elvis paintings. I
can hear Duke Ellington's I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good playing at the end of the
hall, and Gomez leads me in that direction.
Clare and Charisse are in the kitchen. "My kittens, I have brought you a new
toy," Gomez intones. "It answers to the name of Henry, but you can call it Library
Boy" I meet Clare's eyes. She shrugs her shoulders and holds her face out to be
kissed; I oblige with a chaste peck and turn to shake hands with Charisse, who is
short and round in a very pleasing way, all curves and long black hair. She has
such a kind face that I have an urge to confide something, anything, to her, just to
see her reaction. She's a small Filipino Madonna. In a sweet, Don't Fuck With Me
voice she says, "Oh, Gomez, do shut up. Hello, Henry. I'm Charisse Bonavant.
Please ignore Gomez, I just keep him around to lift heavy objects."
"And sex. Don't forget the sex," Gomez reminds her. He looks at me. "Beer?"
"Sure." He delves into the fridge and hands me a Blatz. I pry off the cap and
take a long pull. The kitchen looks as though a Pillsbury dough factory has
exploded in it. Clare sees the direction of my gaze. I suddenly recollect that she
doesn't know how to cook.
"It's a work in progress," says Clare.
"It's an installation piece," says Charisse.
"Are we going to eat it?" asks Gomez.
I look from one to the other, and we all burst out laughing. "Do any of you
know how to cook?"
"No."
"Gomez can make rice."
"Only Rice-A-Roni."
"Clare knows how to order pizza."
"And Thai-I can order Thai, too."
"Charisse knows how to eat."
" Shut up, Gomez," say Charisse and Clare in unison.
"Well, uh.. .what was that going to be?" I inquire, nodding at the disaster on
the counter. Clare hands me a magazine clipping. It's a recipe for Chicken and
Shiitake Risotto with Winter Squash and Pine Nut Dressing. It's from Gourmand,
and there are about twenty ingredients. "Do you have all this stuff?"
Clare nods. "The shopping part I can do. It's the assembly that perplexes."
I examine the chaos more closely. "I could make something out of this."
"You can cook?" I nod.
"It cooks! Dinner is saved! Have another beer!" Gomez exclaims. Charisse
looks relieved, and smiles warmly at me. Clare, who has been hanging back
almost fearfully, sidles over to me and whispers, "You're not mad?" I kiss her,
just a tad longer than is really polite in front of other people. I straighten up, take
off my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. "Give me an apron," I demand. "You,
Gomez-open that wine. Clare, clean up all that spilled stuff, it's turning to
cement. Charisse, would you set the table?"
One hour and forty-three minutes later we are sitting around the dining room
table eating Chicken Risotto Stew with Pureed Squash. Everything has lots of
butter in it. We are all drunk as skunks.
Clare: The whole time Henry is making dinner Gomez is standing around the
kitchen making jokes and smoking and drinking beer and whenever no one is
looking he makes awful faces at me. Finally Charisse catches him and draws her
finger across her throat and he stops. We are talking about the most banal stuff:
our jobs, and school, and where we grew up, and all the usual things that people
talk about when they meet each other for the first time. Gomez tells Henry about
his job being a lawyer, representing abused and neglected children who are
wards of the state. Charisse regales us with tales of her exploits at Lusus Naturae,
a tiny software company that is trying to make computers understand when
people talk to them, and her art, which is making pictures that you look at on a
computer. Henry tells stories about the Newberry Library