n't you tell me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why didn't you tell me you could see her? I would've liked.. .to know that."
Why didn't I tell him? Because any normal father would have figured out by
now that the stranger haunting their early married life was really his abnormal,
time-traveling son. Because I was scared to: because he hated me for surviving.
Because I could secretly feel superior to him for something he saw as a defect.
Ugly reasons like that.
"Because I thought it would hurt you."
"Oh. No. It doesn't... hurt me; I...it's good to know she's there, somewhere. I
mean...the worst thing is that she's gone. So it's good that she's out there. Even if I
can't see her."
"She seems happy, usually."
"Yes, she was very happy.. .we were happy."
"Yeah. You were like a different person. I always wondered what it would
have been like to grow up with you the way you were, then."
He stands up, slowly. I remain seated, and he walks unsteadily down the hall
and into his bedroom. I hear him rummaging around, and then he comes slowly
back with a small satin pouch. He reaches into it, and withdraws a dark blue
jeweler's box. He opens it, and takes out the two delicate rings. They rest like
seeds in his long, shaking hand. Dad puts his left hand over the right hand that
holds the rings, and sits like that for a bit, as though the rings are lightning bugs
trapped in his two hands. His eyes are closed. Then he opens his eyes, and
reaches out his right hand: I cup my hands together, and he turns the rings onto
my waiting palms.
The engagement ring is an emerald, and the dim light from the window is
refracted green and white in it. The rings are silver, and they need cleaning. They
need wearing, and I know just the girl to wear them.
BIRTHDAY
Sunday, May 24, 1992 (Clare is 21, Henry is 28)
Clare: It's my twenty-first birthday. It's a perfect summer evening. I'm at Henry's
apartment, in Henry's bed, reading The Moonstone. Henry is in the tiny kitchenette
making dinner. As I don his bathrobe and head for the bathroom I hear him
swearing at the blender. I take my time, wash my hair, steam up the mirrors. I
think about cutting my hair. How nice it would be to wash it, run a quick comb
through it, and presto! all set, ready to rock and roll. I sigh. Henry loves my hair
almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own,
as though it could love him back. I know he loves it as part of me, but I also
know that he would be deeply upset if I cut it off. And I would miss it, too.. .it's
just so much effort, sometimes I want to take it off like a wig and set it aside
while I go out and play. I comb it carefully, working out the tangles. My hair is
heavy when it's wet. It pulls on my scalp. I prop the bathroom door open to
dissipate the steam. Henry is singing something from Carmina Burana; it sounds
weird and off key. I emerge from the bathroom and he is setting the table.
"Perfect timing; dinner is served "
"Just a minute, let me get dressed."
"You're fine as you are. Really." Henry walks around the table, opens the
bathrobe, and runs his hands lightly over my breasts.
"Mmm. Dinner will get cold."
"Dinner is cold. I mean, it's supposed to be cold."
"Oh....Well, let's eat." I'm suddenly exhausted, and cranky.
"Okay." Henry releases me without comment. He returns to setting out
silverware. I watch him for a minute, then pick up my clothes from their various
places on the floor and put them on. I sit down at the table; Henry brings out two
bowls of soup, pale and thick. "Vichyssoise. This is my grandmother's recipe." I
take a sip. It's perfect, buttery and cool. The next course is salmon, with long
pieces of asparagus in an olive oil and rosemary marinade. I open my mouth to
say something nice about the food and instead say, "Henry-do other people have
sex as much as we do?"
Henry considers. "Most people.. .no, I imagine not. Only people who haven't
known each other very long and still can't believe their luck, I would think. Is it
too much?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I say this looking at my plate. I can't believe I'm saying
this; I spent my entire adolescence begging Henry to fuck me and now I'm telling
him it's too much. Henry sits very still.
"Clare, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize; I wasn't thinking."
I look up; Henry looks stricken. I burst out laughing. Henry smiles, a little
guilty, but his eyes are twinkling.
"It's just-you know, there are days when I can't sit down."
"Well.. .you just have to say. Say'Not tonight, dear, we've already done it
twenty-three times today and I would rather read Bleak House.'"
"And you will meekly cease and desist?"
"I did, just then, didn't I? That was pretty meek."
"Yeah. But then I felt guilty."
Henry laughs. "You can't expect me to help you out there. It may be my only
hope: day after day, week after week, I will languish, starving for a kiss,
withering away for want of a blow job, and after a while you will look up from
your book and realize that I'm actually going to die at your feet if you don't fuck
me immediately but I won't say a word. Maybe a few little whimpering noises."
"But-I don't know, I mean, I'm exhausted, and you seem...fine. Am I abnormal,
or something?"
Henry leans across the table and holds out his hands. I place mine in his.
"Clare."
"Yes?"
"It may be indelicate to mention this, but if you will excuse me for saying so,
your sex drive far outstrips that of almost all the women I've dated. Most women
would have cried Uncle and turned on their answering machines months ago.
But I should have thought.. .you always seemed into it. But if it's too much, or
you don't feel like it, you have to say so, because otherwise I'll be tiptoeing
around, wondering if I'm burdening you with my hideous demands."
"But how much sex is enough?"
"For me? Oh, God. My idea of the perfect life would be if we just stayed in
bed all the time. We could make love more or less continuously, and only get up
to bring in supplies, you know, fresh water and fruit to prevent scurvy, and make
occasional trips to the bathroom to shave before diving back into bed. And once
in a while we could change the sheets. And go to the movies to prevent bedsores.
And running. I would still have to run every morning." Running is a religion
with Henry.
"How come running? Since you'd be getting so much exercise anyway?"
He is suddenly serious. "Because quite frequently my life depends on
running faster than whoever's chasing me."
"Oh." Now it's my turn to be abashed, because I already knew that. "But-how
do I put this?-you never seem to go anywhere-that is, since I met you here in the
present you've hardly time traveled at all. Have you?"
"Well, at Christmas, you saw that. And around Thanksgiving. You were in
Michigan, and I didn't mention it because it was depressing."
"You were watching the accident?"
Henry stares at me. "Actually, I was. How did you know?"
"A few years ago you showed up at Meadowlark on Christmas Eve and told
me about it. You were really upset."
"Yeah. I remember being unhappy just seeing that date on the List, thinking,
gee, an extra Christmas to get through. Plus that was a bad one in regular time; I
ended up with alcohol poisoning and had to have my stomach pumped. I hope I
didn't ruin yours."
"No.. .I was happy to see you. And you were telling me something that was
important, personal, even though you were careful not to tell any names or
places. It was still your real life, and I was desperate for anything that helped me
believe you were real and not some psychosis of mine. That's also why I was
always touching you." I laugh. "I never realized how difficult I was making
things for you. I mean, I did everything I could think of, and you were just cool
as could be. You must have been dying"
"For example?"
"What's for dessert?"
Henry dutifully gets up and brings dessert. It's mango ice cream with
raspberries. It has one little candle sticking out of it at an angle; Henry sings
Happy Birthday and I giggle because he's so off-key; I make a wish and blow out
the candle. The ice cream tastes superb; I am very cheerful, and I scan my
memory for an especially egregious episode of Henry baiting.
"Okay. This was the worst. When I was sixteen, I was waiting for you late one
night. It was about eleven o'clock, and there was a new moon, so it was pretty
dark in the clearing. And I was kind of annoyed with you, because you were
resolutely treating me like-a child, or a pal, or whatever-and I was just crazy to
lose my virginity. I suddenly got the idea that I would hide your clothes...."
"Oh, no."
"Yes. So I moved the clothes to a different spot..." I'm a little ashamed of this
story, but it's too late now.
"And?"
"And you appeared, and I basically teased you until you couldn't take it."
"And?"
"And you jumped me and pinned me, and for about thirty seconds we both
thought 'This is it.' I mean, it wasn't like you would've been raping me, because I
was absolutely asking for it. But you got this look on your face, and you said
'No,' and you got up and walked away. You walked right through the Meadow
into the trees and I didn't see you again for three weeks."
"Wow. That's a better man than I."
"I was so chastened by the whole thing that I made a huge effort to behave
myself for the next two years."
"Thank goodness. I can't imagine having to exercise that much willpower on a
regular basis."
"Ah, but you will, that's the amazing part. For a long time I actually thought
you were not attracted to me. Of course, if we are going to spend our whole lives
in bed, I suppose you can exercise a little restraint on your jaunts into my past."
"Well, you know, I'm not kidding about wanting that much sex. I mean, I
realize that it's not practical. But I've been wanting to tell you: I feel so different. I
just.. .feel so connected to you. And I think that it hol