r somebody. Bobby and his girlfriend ought to be
listening to The Cure if they want to dress up. But instead they've stumbled into
this thing, punk, that they don't know anything about-"
"I'm sure it's mostly to annoy their parents. Laura was telling me that her dad
won't let Jodie leave the house dressed like that. She puts everything in her
backpack and changes in the ladies' room at school," says Clare.
"But that's what everybody did, back when. I mean, it's about asserting your
individualism, I understand that, but why are they asserting the individualism of
1977? They ought to be wearing plaid flannel."
"Why do you care?" Clare says.
"It depresses me. It's a reminder that the moment I belonged to is dead, and
not just dead, but forgotten. None of this stuff ever gets played on the radio, I
can't figure out why. It's like it never happened. That's why I get excited when I
see little kids pretending to be punks, because I don't want it all to just
disappear."
"Well," says Clare, "you can always go back. Most people are glued to the
present; you get to be there again and again."
I think about this. "It's just sad, Clare. Even when I get to do something cool,
like, say, go to see a concert I missed the first time around, maybe a band that's
broken up or somebody that died, it's sad watching them because I know what's
going to happen."
"But how is that different from the rest of your life?"
"It isn't." We have reached the private road that leads to Clare's house. She
turns in.
"Henry?"
"Yeah?"
"If you could stop, now... if you could not time travel any more, and there
would be no consequences, would you?"
"If I could stop now and still meet you?"
"You've already met me."
"Yes. I would stop." I glance at Clare, dim in the dark car.
"It would be funny" she says, "I would have all these memories that you
would never get to have. It would be like-well, it is like being with somebody
who has amnesia. I've been feeling that way ever since we got here."
I laugh. "So in the future you can watch me lurch along into each memory,
until I've got the complete set. Collect 'em all."
She smiles. "I guess so." Clare pulls into the circular driveway in front of the
house. "Home sweet home."
Later, after we have crept upstairs into our separate rooms and I have put on
pajamas and brushed my teeth and sneaked into Clare's room and remembered
to lock the door this time and we are warm in her narrow bed, she whispers, "I
wouldn't want you to miss it."
"Miss what?"
"All the things that happened. When I was a kid. I mean, so far they have only
halfway happened, because you aren't there yet. So when they happen to you,
then it's real."
"I'm on my way." I run my hand over her belly, and down between her legs.
Clare squeals.
"Shhh."
"Your hand is icy."
"Sorry." We fuck carefully, silently. When I finally come it's so intense that I
get a horrible headache, and for a minute I'm afraid I'm going to disappear, but I
don't. Instead I lie in Clare's arms, cross-eyed with pain. Clare snores, quiet
animal snores that feel like bulldozers running through my head. I want my own
bed, in my own apartment. Home sweet home. No place like home. Take me
home, country roads. Home is where the heart is. But my heart is here. So I must
be home. Clare sighs, turns her head, and is quiet. Hi, honey, I'm home. I'm
home.
Clare: It's a clear, cold morning. Breakfast has been eaten. The car is packed. Mark
and Sharon have already left with Daddy for the airport in Kalamazoo. Henry is
in the hall saying goodbye to Alicia; I run upstairs to Mama's room.
"Oh, is it so late?" she asks when she sees me wearing my coat and boots. "I
thought you were staying to lunch." Mama is sitting at her desk, which as always
is covered with pieces of paper which are covered with her extravagant
handwriting.
"What are you working on?" Whatever it is, it's full of scratched-out words
and doodles.
Mama turns the page face down. She's very secretive about her writing.
"Nothing. It's a poem about the garden under the snow. It isn't coming out well at
all." Mama stands up, walks to the window. "Funny how poems are never as
nice as the real garden. My poems, anyway."
I can't really comment on this because Mama has never let me read one of her
poems, so I say, "Well, the garden is beautiful," and she waves the compliment
away. Praise means nothing to Mama, she doesn't believe it. Only criticism can
flush her cheeks and catch her attention. If I were to say something disparaging
she would remember it always. There is an awkward pause. I realize that she is
waiting for me to leave so she can go back to her writing.
"Bye, Mama," I say. I kiss her cool face, and escape.
Henry: We've been on the road for about an hour. For miles the highway was
bordered by pine trees; now we are in flat land full of barbed-wire fences.
Neither of us has spoken in a while. As soon as I notice it the silence is strange,
and so I say something.
"That wasn't so bad." My voice is too cheerful, too loud in the small car. Clare
doesn't answer, and I look over at her. She's crying; tears are running down her
cheeks as she drives, pretending that she's not crying. I've never seen Clare cry
before, and something about her silent stoic tears unnerves me. "Clare. Clare,
maybe-could you maybe pull over for a minute?" Without looking at me, she
slows down and drives onto the shoulder, stops. We are somewhere in Indiana.
The sky is blue and there are many crows in the field at the side of the road. Clare
leans her forehead against the steering wheel and takes a long ragged breath.
"Clare." I'm talking to the back of her head. "Clare, I'm sorry. Was it- did I
fuck up somehow? What happened? I-"
"It's not you," she says under her veil of hair. We sit like this for minutes.
"What's wrong, then?" Clare shakes her head, and I sit and stare at her. Finally
I gather enough courage to touch her. I stroke her hair, feeling the bones of her
neck and spine through the thick shimmering waves. She turns and I'm holding
her awkwardly across the divided seats and now Clare is crying hard,
shuddering.
Then she's quiet. Then she says, "God damn Mama."
Later we are sitting in a traffic jam on the Dan Ryan Expressway, listening to
Irma Thomas. "Henry? Was it-did you mind very much?"
"Mind what?" I ask, thinking about Clare crying.
But she says, "My family? Are they-did they seem-?"
"They were fine, Clare. I really liked them. Especially Alicia."
"Sometimes I just want to push them all into Lake Michigan and watch them
sink."
"Um, I know the feeling. Hey, I think your dad and your brother have seen me
before. And Alicia said something really strange just as we were leaving."
"I saw you with Dad and Mark once. And Alicia definitely saw you in the
basement one day when she was twelve."
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, because the explanation is too weird to be believed." We both laugh, and
the tension that has ridden with us all the way to Chicago dissipates. Traffic
begins to accelerate. Soon Clare stops in front of my apartment building. I take
my bag from the trunk, and I watch as Clare pulls away and glides down
Dearborn, and my throat closes up. Hours later I identify what I am feeling as
loneliness, and Christmas is officially over for another year.
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 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 