est."
"Henry-"
"You know, it happened six years ago, and I'm still angry at her. What a
waste. But she was severely depressed, for a long time, and she just sunk down
into it. I couldn't do anything for her. It was one of the things we used to fight
about."
"This is a pretty sick joke, Library Boy."
"You want proof."
He just smiles.
"How about that photo? The one you said Clare has?"
The smile vanishes. "Okay. I admit that I am a wee bit befuddled by that."
"I met Clare for the first time in October, 1991. She met me for the first time in
September, 1977; she was six, I will be thirty-eight. She's known me all her life. In
1991 I'm just getting to know her. By the way, you should ask Clare all this stuff.
She'll tell you "
"I already did. She told me."
"Well, hell, Gomez. You're taking up valuable time, here, making me tell you
all over again. You didn't believe her?"
"No. Would you?"
"Sure. Clare is very truthful. It's that Catholic upbringing that does it." Lance
comes by with more coffee. I'm already highly caffeinated, but more can't hurt.
"So? What kind of proof are you looking for?"
"Clare said you disappear."
"Yeah, it's one of my more dramatic parlor tricks. Stick to me like glue, and
sooner or later, I vanish. It may take minutes, hours, or days, but I'm very reliable
that way."
"Do we know each other in 2000?"
"Yeah." I grin at him. "We're good friends."
"Tell me my future."
Oh, no. Bad idea. "Nope."
"Why not?"
"Gomez. Things happen. Knowing about them in advance makes everything..
.weird. You can't change anything, anyway."
"Why?"
"Causation only runs forward. Things happen once, only once. If you know
things...1 feel trapped, most of the time. If you are in time, not knowing...you're
free. Trust me." He looks frustrated. "You'll be the best man at our wedding. I'll
be yours. You have a great life, Gomez. But I'm not going to tell you the
particulars."
"Stock tips?"
Yeah, why not. In 2000 the stock market is insane, but there are amazing
fortunes to be made, and Gomez will be one of the lucky ones. "Ever heard of the
Internet?" No.
"It's a computer thing. A vast, worldwide network with regular people all
plugged in, communicating by phone lines with computers. You want to buy
technology stocks. Netscape, America Online, Sun Microsystems, Yahoo!,
Microsoft, Amazon.com." He's taking notes.
"Dotcom?"
"Don't worry about it. lust buy it at the IPO." I smile. "Clap your hands if you
believe in fairies."
"I thought you were pole-axing anyone who insinuated anything about fairies
this evening?"
"It's from Peter Pan, you illiterate." I suddenly feel nauseous. I don't want to
cause a scene here, now. I jump up. "Follow me " I say, running for the men's
room, Gomez close behind me. I burst into the miraculously empty John. Sweat is
streaming down my face. I throw up into the sink. "Jesus H. Christ," says Gomez.
"Damn it, Library-" but I lose the rest of whatever he's about to say, because I'm
lying on my side, naked, on a cold linoleum floor, in pitch blackness. I'm dizzy,
so I lie there for a while. I reach out my hand and touch the spines of books. I'm
in the stacks, at the Newberry. I get up and stagger to the end of the aisle and flip
the switch; light floods the row I'm standing in, blinding me. My clothes, and the
cart of books I was shelving, are in the next aisle over. I get dressed, shelve the
books, and gingerly open the security door to the stacks. I don't know what time
it is; the alarms could be on. But no, everything is as it was. Isabelle is instructing
a new patron in the ways of the Reading Room; Matt walks by and waves. The
sun pours in the windows, and the hands of the Reading Room clock point to
4:15. I've been gone less than fifteen minutes. Amelia sees me and points to the
door. "I'm going out to Starbucks. You want Java?"
"Um, no, I don't think so. But thanks." I have a horrible headache. I stick my
face into Roberto's office and tell him I don't feel well. He nods sympathetically,
gestures at the phone, which is spewing lightspeed Italian into his ear. I grab my
stuff and leave.
Just another routine day at the office for Library Boy.
Sunday, December 15, 1991 (Clare is 20)
Clare: It's a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, and I'm on my way home from
Henry's apartment. The streets are icy and there's a couple inches of fresh snow.
Everything is blindingly white and clean. I am singing along with Aretha
Franklin, "R-E-S-P-E-C-T!" as I turn off Addison onto Hoyne, and lo and behold,
there's a parking space right in front. It's my lucky day. I park and negotiate the
slick sidewalk, let myself into the vestibule, still humming. I have that dreamy
rubber spine feeling that I'm beginning to associate with sex, with waking up in
Henry's bed, with getting home at all hours of the morning. I float up the stairs.
Charisse will be at church. I'm looking forward to a long bath and the New York
Times. As soon as I open our door, I know I'm not alone. Gomez is sitting in the
living room in a cloud of smoke with the blinds closed. What with the red
flocked wallpaper and the red velvet furniture and all the smoke, he looks like a
blond Polish Elvis Satan. He just sits there, so I start walking back to my room
without speaking. I'm still mad at him.
"Clare."
I turn. "What?"
"I'm sorry. I was wrong." I've never heard Gomez admit to anything less than
papal infallibility. His voice is a deep croak.
I walk into the living room and open the blinds. The sunlight is having trouble
getting through the smoke, so I crack a window. "I don't see how you can smoke
this much without setting off the smoke detector."
Gomez holds up a nine-volt battery. "I'll put it back before I leave."
I sit down on the Chesterfield. I wait for Gomez to tell me why he's changed
his mind. He's rolling another cigarette. Finally he lights it, and looks at me.
"I spent last night with your friend Henry."
"So did I."
"Yeah. What did you do?"
"Went to Facets, saw a Peter Greenaway film, ate Moroccan, went to his
place."
"And you just left."
"That's right."
"Well. My evening was less cultural, but more eventful. I came upon your
beamish boy in the alley by the Vic, smashing Nick to a pulp. Trent told me this
morning that Nick has a broken nose, three broken ribs, five broken bones in his
hand, soft-tissue damage, and forty-six stitches. And he's gonna need a new front
tooth." I am unmoved. Nick is a big bully. "You should have seen it, Clare. Your
boyfriend dealt with Nick like he was an inanimate object. Like Nick was a
sculpture he was carving. Real scientific-like. Just considered where to land it for
maximum effect, wham. I would have totally admired it, if it hadn't been Nick."
"Why was Henry beating up Nick?"
Gomez looks uncomfortable. "It sounded like it might have been Nick's fault.
He likes to pick on.. .gays, and Henry was dressed like Little Miss Muffet." I can
imagine. Poor Henry.
"And then?"
"Then we burglarized the Army-Navy surplus store." So far so good.
"And?"
"And then we went to Ann Sather's for dinner."
I burst out laughing. Gomez smiles. "And he told me the same whacko story
that you told me."
"So why did you believe him?"
"Well, he's so fucking nonchalant. I could tell that he absolutely knew me,
through and through. He had my number, and he didn't care. And then
he-vanished, and I was standing there, and I just.. .had to. Believe."
I nod, sympathetically. "The disappearing is pretty impressive. I remember
that from the very first time I saw him, when I was little. He was shaking my
hand, and poof! he was gone. Hey, when was he coming from?"
"2000. He looked a lot older."
"He goes through a lot." It's kind of nice to sit here and talk about Henry with
someone who knows. I feel a surge of gratitude toward Gomez which evaporates
as he leans forward and says, quite gravely, "Don't marry him, Clare."
"He hasn't asked me, yet."
"You know what I mean."
I sit very still, looking at my hands quietly clasped in my lap. I'm cold and
furious. I look up. Gomez regards me anxiously.
"I love him. He's my life. I've been waiting for him, my whole life, and now,
he's here." I don't know how to explain. "With Henry, I can see everything laid
out, like a map, past and future, everything at once, like an angel...."I shake my
head. I can't put it into words. "I can reach into him and touch time.. .he loves me.
We're married because.. .we're part of each other...."I falter. "It's happened
already. All at once." I peer at Gomez to see if I've made any sense.
"Clare. I like him, very much. He's fascinating. But he's dangerous. All the
women he's been with fall apart. I just don't want you blithely waltzing into the
arms of this charming sociopath.."
"Don't you see that you're too late? You're talking about somebody I've
known since I was six. I know him. You've met him twice and you're trying to tell
me to jump off the train. Well, I can't. I've seen my future; I can't change it, and I
wouldn't if I could."
Gomez looks thoughtful. "He wouldn't tell me anything about my future."
"Henry cares about you; he wouldn't do that to you."
"He did it to you."
"It couldn't be helped; our lives are all tangled together. My whole childhood
was different because of him, and there was nothing he could do. He did the best
he could." I hear Charisse's key turning in the lock.
"Clare, don't be mad-I'm just trying to help you."
I smile at him. "You can help us. You'll see."
Charisse comes in coughing. "Oh, sweetie. You've been waiting a long time."
"I've been chatting with Clare. About Henry."
"I'm sure you've been telling her how much you adore him," Charisse says
with a note of warning in her voice.
"I've been telling her to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction."
"Oh, Gomez. Clare, don't listen to him. He has terrible taste in men." Charisse
sits down primly a foot away from Gomez and h