ds me here, in the present.
Being physically connected the way that we are, it's kind of rewiring my brain."
Henry is stroking my hand with his fingertips. He looks up. "I have something
for you. Come and sit over here."
I get up and follow him into the living room. He's turned the bed into the
couch and I sit down. The sun is setting and the room is washed in rose and
tangerine light. Henry opens his desk, reaches into a pigeonhole, and produces a
little satin bag. He sits slightly apart from me; our knees are touching. He must be
able to hear my heart beating, I think. It's come to this, I think. Henry takes my hands
and looks at me gravely. I've waited for this so long and here it is and I'm frightened.
"Clare?"
"Yes?" My voice is small and scared.
"You know that I love you. Will you marry me?"
"Yes...Henry." I have an overwhelming sense of deja vu. "But you know,
really.. .1 already have."
Sunday, May 31, 1992 (Clare is 21, Henry is 28)
Clare: Henry and I are standing in the vestibule of the apartment building he
grew up in. We're a little late already, but we are just standing here; Henry is
leaning against the mailboxes and breathing slowly with his eyes closed.
"Don't worry," I say. "It can't be any worse than you meeting Mama."
"Your parents were very nice to me."
"But Mama is.. .unpredictable."
"So's Dad." Henry inserts his key into the front door lock and we walk up one
flight of stairs and Henry knocks on the door of an apartment. Immediately it is
opened by a tiny old Korean woman: Kimy. She's wearing a blue silk dress and
bright red lipstick, and her eyebrows have been drawn on a little lopsided. Her
hair is salt-and-pepper gray; it's braided and coiled into two buns at her ears. For
some reason she reminds me of Ruth Gordon. She comes up to my shoulder, and
she tilts her head back and says, "Ohhh, Henry, she's bee-yoo-tiful!" I can feel
myself turn red. Henry says, "Kimy, where are your manners?" and Kimy laughs
and says, "Hello, Miss Clare Abshire!" and I say "Hello, Mrs. Kim." We smile at
each other, and she says, "Oh, you got to call me Kimy, everybody call me
Kimy." I nod and follow her into the living room and there's Henry's dad, sitting
in an armchair.
He doesn't say anything, just looks at me. Henry's dad is thin, tall, angular,
and tired. He doesn't look much like Henry. He has short gray hair, dark eyes, a
long nose, and a thin mouth whose corners turn down a little. He's sitting all
bunched up in his chair, and I notice his hands, long elegant hands that lie in his
lap like a cat napping.
Henry coughs and says, "Dad, this is Clare Abshire. Clare, this is my father,
Richard DeTamble."
Mr. DeTamble slowly extends one of his hands, and I step forward and shake
it. It's ice cold. "Hello, Mr. DeTamble. It's nice to meet you," I say.
"Is it? Henry must not have told you very much about me, then." His voice is
hoarse and amused. "I will have to capitalize on your optimism. Come and sit
down by me. Kimy, may we have something to drink?"
"I was just going to ask everyone-Clare, what would you like? I made sangria,
you like that? Henry, how 'bout you? Sangria? Okay. Richard, you like a beer?"
Everyone seems to pause for a moment. Then Mr. DeTamble says, "No, Kimy,
I think I'll just have tea, if you don't mind making it." Kimy smiles and
disappears into the kitchen, and Mr. DeTamble turns to me and says, "I have a bit
of a cold. I've taken some of that cold medicine, but I'm afraid it just makes me
drowsy."
Henry is sitting on the couch, watching us. All the furniture is white and looks
as though it was bought at a JCPenney around 1945. The upholstery is protected
with clear plastic, and there are vinyl runners over the white carpet. There's a
fireplace that looks as though it's never used; above it is a beautiful ink painting
of bamboo in wind.
"That's a wonderful painting," I say, because no one is saying anything.
Mr. DeTamble seems pleased. "Do you like it? Annette and I brought it back
from Japan in 1962. We bought it in Kyoto, but the original is from China. We
thought Kimy and Dong would like it. It is a seventeenth-century copy of a much
older painting."
"Tell Clare about the poem " Henry says.
"Yes; the poem goes something like this: 'Bamboo without mind, yet sends
thoughts soaring among clouds. Standing on the lone mountain, quiet, dignified,
it typifies the will of a gentleman. -Painted and written with a light heart, Wu
Chen.'"
"That's lovely," I say. Kimy comes in with drinks on a tray, and Henry and I
each take a glass of sangria while Mr. DeTamble carefully grasps his tea with
both hands; the cup rattles against the saucer as he sets it on the table beside him.
Kimy sits in a small armchair by the fireplace and sips her sangria. I taste mine
and realize that it's really strong. Henry glances at me and raises his eyebrows.
Kimy says, "Do you like gardens, Clare?"
"Um, yes," I say. "My mother is a gardener."
"You got to come out before dinner and see the backyard. All my peonies are
blooming, and we got to show you the river."
"That sounds nice." We all troop out to the yard. I admire the Chicago River,
placidly flowing at the foot of a precarious stairway; I admire the peonies. Kimy
asks, "What kind of garden does your mom have? Does she grow roses?" Kimy
has a tiny but well-ordered rose garden, all hybrid teas as far as I can tell.
"She does have a rose garden. Actually, Mama's real passion is irises."
"Oh. I got irises. They're over there." Kimy points to a clump of iris. "I need to
divide them, you think your mom would like some?"
"I don't know. I could ask." Mama has more than two hundred varieties of iris.
I catch Henry smiling behind Kimy's back and I frown at him. "I could ask her if
she wants to trade you some of hers; she has some that she bred herself, and she
likes to give them to friends."
"Your mother breeds iris?" Mr. DeTamble asks.
"Uh-huh. She also breeds tulips, but the irises are her favorites."
"She is a professional gardener?"
"No," I say. "Just an amateur. She has a gardener who does most of the work
and there's a bunch of people who come in and mow and weed and all that."
"Must be a big yard," Kimy says. She leads the way back into the apartment.
In the kitchen a timer goes off. "Okay," says Kimy. "It's time to eat." I ask if I can
help but Kimy waves me into a chair. I sit across from Henry. His dad is on my
right and Kimy's empty chair is on my left. I notice that Mr. DeTamble is wearing
a sweater, even though it's pretty warm in here. Kimy has very pretty china; there
are hummingbirds painted on it. Each of us has a sweating cold glass of water.
Kimy pours us white wine. She hesitates at Henry's dad's glass but passes him
over when he shakes his head. She brings out salads and sits down. Mr.
DeTamble raises his water glass. "To the happy couple," he says. "Happy
couple," says Kimy, and we all touch glasses and drink. Kimy says, "So, Clare,
Henry say you are an artist. What kind of artist?"
"I make paper. Paper sculptures."
"Ohh. You have to show me sometime 'cause I don't know about that. Like
origami?"
"Uh, no."
Henry intercedes. "They're like that German artist we saw down at the Art
Institute, you know, Anselm Kiefer. Big dark scary paper sculptures."
Kimy looks puzzled. "Why would a pretty girl like you make ugly things like
that?"
Henry laughs. "It's art, Kimy. Besides, they're beautiful."
"I use a lot of flowers," I tell Kimy. "If you give me your dead roses I'll put
them in the piece I'm working on now."
"Okay," she says. "What is it?"
"A giant crow made out of roses, hair, and daylily fiber."
"Huh. How come a crow? Crows are bad luck."
"They are? I think they're gorgeous."
Mr. DeTamble raises one eyebrow and for just a second he does look like
Henry; he says, "You have peculiar ideas about beauty."
Kimy gets up and clears our salad plates and brings in a bowl of green beans
and a steaming plate of "Roast Duck with Raspberry Pink Peppercorn Sauce." It's
heavenly. I realize where Henry learned to cook. "What you think?" Kimy
demands. "It's delicious, Kimy," says Mr. DeTamble, and I echo his praise.
"Maybe cut down on the sugar?" Henry asks. "Yeah, I think so, too," says Kimy.
"It's really tender though," Henry says, and Kimy grins. I stretch out my hand to
pick up my wine glass. Mr. DeTamble nods at me and says, "Annette's ring looks
well on you."
"It's very beautiful. Thank you for letting me have it."
"There's a lot of history in that ring, and the wedding band that goes with it. It
was made in Paris in 1823 for my great-great-great-grandmother, whose name
was Jeanne. It came to America in 1920 with my grandmother, Yvette, and it's
been sitting in a drawer since 1969, when Annette died. It's good to see it back
out in the light of day."
I look at the ring, and think, Henry's mom was wearing this when she died. I glance
at Henry, who seems to be thinking the same thing, and at Mr. DeTamble, who is
eating his duck. "Tell me about Annette," I ask Mr. DeTamble.
He puts down his fork and leans his elbows on the table, puts his hands
against his forehead. He peers at me from behind his hands. "Well, I'm sure
Henry must have told you something."
"Yes. A little. I grew up listening to her records; my parents are fans of hers."
Mr. DeTamble smiles. "Ah. Well then, you know that Annette had the most
marvelous voice...rich, and pure, such a voice, and such range...she could express
her soul with that voice, whenever I listened to her I felt my life meant more than
mere biology... she could really hear, she understood structure and she could
analyze exactly what it was about a piece of music that had to be rendered just
so...she was a very emotional person, Annette. She brought that out in other
people. After she died I don't think I ever really felt anything again."
He pauses. I can't look at Mr. DeTamble so I loo