s herself another drink, thinks this
over. "Well, you're lucky to have a great dad who loves something besides
money."
I'm standing behind Clare, running my fingers up her spine in the dark. She
puts her hand behind her back and I clasp it. "I don't think you would say that if
you knew my family at all. Besides, your dad seems to care about you very
much."
"No " she shakes her head. "He just wants me to be perfect in front of his
friends. He doesn't care at all." Alicia racks the balls and swivels them into
position. "Who wants to play?"
"I'll play," Mark says. "Henry?"
"Sure." Mark and I chalk our cues and face each other across the table.
I break. The 4 and the 15 go down. "Solids," I call, seeing the 2 near the corner.
I sink it, and then miss the 3 altogether. I'm getting tired, and my coordination is
softening from the whiskies. Mark plays with determination but no flair, and
sinks the 10 and the 11. We soldier on, and soon I have sunk all the solids. Mark's
13 is parked on the lip of a corner pocket. "8 ball," I say pointing at it. "You
know, you can't drop Mark's ball or you'll lose," says Alicia. "'S okay," I tell her. I
launch the cue ball gently across the table, and it kisses the 8 ball lovingly and
sends it smooth and easy toward the 13, and it seems to almost detour around
the 13 as though on rails, and plops decorously into the hole, and Clare laughs,
but then the 13 teeters, and falls.
"Oh, well," I say. "Easy come, easy go."
"Good game," says Mark.
"God, where'd you learn to play like that?" Alicia asks.
"It was one of the things I learned in college." Along with drinking, English
and German poetry, and drugs. We put away the cues and pick up the glasses
and bottles.
"What was your major?" Mark unlocks the door and we all walk together
down the hall toward the kitchen.
"English lit."
"How come not music?" Alicia balances her glass and Clare's in one hand as
she pushes open the dining room door.
I laugh. "You wouldn't believe how unmusical I am. My parents were sure
they'd brought home the wrong kid from the hospital."
"That must have been a drag," says Mark. "At least Dad's not pushing you to
be a lawyer" he says to Alicia. We enter the kitchen and Clare flips on the light.
"He's not pushing you either" she retorts. "You love it."
"Well, that's what I mean. He's not making any of us do something we don't
want to do."
"Was it a drag?" Alicia asks me. "I would have been lapping it up."
"Well, before my mom died, everything was great. After that, everything was
terrible. If I had been a violin prodigy, maybe.. .I dunno." I look at Clare, and
shrug. "Anyway, Dad and I don't get along. At all."
"How come?"
Clare says, "Bedtime." She means, Enough already. Alicia is waiting for an
answer.
I turn my face to her. "Have you ever seen a picture of my mom?" She nods. "I
look like her."
"So?" Alicia washes the glasses under the tap. Clare dries.
"So, he can't stand to look at me. I mean, that's just one reason among many."
But-
"Alicia-" Clare is trying, but Alicia is unstoppable.
"But he's your dad."
I smile. "The things you do to annoy your dad are small beer compared with
the things my dad and I have done to each other."
"Like what?"
"Like the numerous times he has locked me out of our apartment, in all kinds
of weather. Like the time I threw his car keys into the river. That kind of thing."
"Why'dja do that?"
"I didn't want him to smash up the car, and he was drunk."
Alicia, Mark, and Clare all look at me and nod. They understand perfectly.
"Bedtime," says Alicia, and we all leave the kitchen and go to our rooms
without another word, except, "Good night."
Clare: It's 3:14 a.m. according to my alarm clock and I am just getting warm in my
cold bed when the door opens and Henry comes in very quietly. I pull back the
covers and he hops in. The bed squeaks as we arrange ourselves.
"Hi" I whisper.
"Hi" Henry whispers back.
"This isn't a good idea."
"It was very cold in my room."
"Oh." Henry touches my cheek, and I have to stifle a shriek. His fingers are
icy. I rub them between my palms. Henry burrows deeper into the covers. I press
against him, trying to get warm again. "Are you wearing socks?" he asks softly.
"Yes." He reaches down and pulls them off my feet. After a few minutes and a
lot of squeaking and Shhh! we are both naked.
"Where did you go, when you left church?"
"My apartment. For about five minutes, four days from now."
"Why?"
"Tired. Tense, I guess"
"No, why there?"
"Dunno. Sort of a default mechanism. The time travel air traffic controllers
thought I would look good there, maybe." Henry buries his hand in my hair.
It's getting lighter outside. "Merry Christmas," I whisper. Henry doesn't
answer, and I lie awake in his arms thinking about multitudes of angels, listening
to his measured breath, and pondering in my heart.
Henry: In the early hours of the morning I get up to take a leak and as I stand in
Clare's bathroom sleepily urinating by the illumination of the Tinkerbell
nightlight I hear a girl's voice say "Clare?" and before I can figure out where this
voice is coming from a door that I thought was a closet opens and I find myself
standing stark naked in front of Alicia. "Oh," she whispers as I belatedly grab a
towel and cover myself. "Oh, hi, Alicia," I whisper, and we both grin. She
disappears back into her room as abruptly as she came in.
Clare: I'm dozing, listening to the house waking up. Nell is down in the kitchen
singing and rattling the pans. Someone walks down the hall, past my door. I look
over and Henry is still deep in sleep, and I suddenly realize that I have got to get
him out of here without anyone seeing. I extricate myself from Henry and the
blankets and climb out of bed carefully. I pick my nightgown up off the floor and
I'm just pulling it on over my head when Etta says, "Clare! Rise and shine, it's
Christmas!" and sticks her head in the door. I hear Alicia calling Etta and as I
poke my head out of the nightgown I see Etta turn away to answer Alicia and I
turn to the bed and Henry is not there. His pajama bottoms are lying on the rug
and I kick them under the bed. Etta walks into my room in her yellow bathrobe
with her braids trailing over her shoulders. I say "Merry Christmas!" and she is
telling me something about Mama, but I'm having trouble listening because I'm
imagining Henry materializing in front of Etta. "Clare?" Etta is peering at me
with concern.
"Huh? Oh, sorry. I'm still asleep, I guess."
"There's coffee downstairs." Etta is making the bed. She looks puzzled.
"I'll do that, Etta. You go on down." Etta walks to the other side of the bed.
Mama sticks her head in the door. She looks beautiful, serene after last night's
storm. "Merry Christmas, honey."
I walk to her, kiss her cheek lightly. "Merry Christmas, Mama." It's so hard to
stay mad at her when she is my familiar, lovely Mama.
"Etta, will you come down with me?" Mama asks. Etta thwaps the pillows
with her hands and the twin impressions of our heads vanish. She glances at me,
raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say anything.
"Etta?"
"Coming..." Etta bustles out after Mama. I shut the door after them and lean
against it, just in time to see Henry roll out from under the bed. He gets up and
starts to put his pajamas on. I lock the door.
"Where were you?" I whisper.
"Under the bed," Henry whispers back, as though this should be obvious.
"All the time?"
"Yeah." For some reason this strikes me as hilarious, and I start to giggle.
Henry puts his hand over my mouth, and soon we are both shaking with
laughter, silently.
Henry: Christmas Day is strangely calm after the high seas of yesterday. We
gather around the tree, self-conscious in our bathrobes and slippers, and presents
are opened, and exclaimed over. After effusive thanks on all sides, we eat
breakfast. There is a lull and then we eat Christmas dinner, with great praise for
Nell and the lobsters. Everyone is smiling, well-mannered, and good-looking.
We are a model happy family, an advertisement for the bourgeoisie. We are
everything I always longed for when I sat in the Lucky Wok restaurant with Dad
and Mrs. and Mr. Kim every Christmas Day and tried to pretend I was enjoying
myself while the adults all watched anxiously. But even as we lounge, well-fed,
in the living room after dinner, watching football on television and reading the
books we have given each other and attempting to operate the presents which
require batteries and/or assembly, there is a noticeable strain. It is as though
somewhere, in one of the more remote rooms of the house, a cease-fire has been
signed, and now all the parties are endeavoring to honor it, at least until
tomorrow, at least until a new consignment of ammunition comes in. We are all
acting, pretending to be relaxed, impersonating the ideal mother, father, sisters,
brother, boyfriend, fiancée. And so it is a relief when Clare looks at her watch,
gets up off the couch, and says, "Come on, it's time to go over to Laura's."
Clare: Laura's party is in full swing by the time we arrive. Henry is tense and
pale and heads for the liquor as soon as we get our coats off. I still feel sleepy
from the wine we drank at dinner, so I shake my head when he asks me what I
want, and he brings me a Coke. He's holding on to his beer as though it's ballast.
"Do not, under any circumstances, leave me to fend for myself," Henry demands,
looking over my shoulder, and before I can even turn my head Helen is upon us.
There is a momentary, embarrassed silence.
"So, Henry" Helen says, "we hear that you are a librarian. But you don't look
like a librarian."
"Actually, I am a Calvin Klein underwear model. The librarian thing is just a
front."
I've never seen Helen nonplussed before. I wish I had a camera. She recovers
quickly, though, looks Henry up and down, and smiles. "Okay, Clare, you can
keep him,"