k at Henry. He's staring at his
father with an expression of such sadness that I look at my plate.
Mr. DeTamble says, "But you asked about Annette, not about me. She was
kind, and she was a great artist; you don't often find that those go together.
Annette made people happy; she was happy herself. She enjoyed life. I only saw
her cry twice: once when I gave her that ring and the other time when she had
Henry."
Another pause. Finally I say, "You were very lucky."
He smiles, still shielding his face in his hands. "Well, we were and we weren't.
One minute we had everything we could dream of, and the next minute she was
in pieces on the expressway." Henry winces.
"But don't you think," I persist, "that it's better to be extremely happy for a
short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?"
Mr. DeTamble regards me. He takes his hands away from his face and stares.
Then he says, "I've often wondered about that. Do you believe that?"
I think about my childhood, all the waiting, and wondering, and the joy of
seeing Henry walking through the Meadow after not seeing him for weeks,
months, and I think about what it was like not to see him for two years and then
to find him standing in the Reading Room at the Newberry Library: the joy of
being able to touch him, the luxury of knowing where he is, of knowing he loves
me. "Yes," I say. "I do." I meet Henry's eyes and smile.
Mr. DeTamble nods. "Henry has chosen well." Kimy gets up to bring coffee
and while she's in the kitchen Mr. DeTamble continues, "He isn't calibrated to
bring peace to anyone's life. In fact, he is in many ways the opposite of his
mother: unreliable, volatile, and not even especially concerned with anyone but
himself. Tell me, Clare: why on earth would a lovely girl like you want to marry
Henry?"
Everything in the room seems to hold its breath. Henry stiffens but doesn't say
anything. I lean forward and smile at Mr. DeTamble and say, with enthusiasm, as
though he has asked me what flavor of ice cream I like best: "Because he's really,
really good in bed." In the kitchen there's a howl of laughter. Mr. DeTamble
glances at Henry, who raises his eyebrows and grins, and finally even Mr.
DeTamble smiles, and says, " Touché, my dear."
Later, after we have drunk our coffee and eaten Kimy's perfect almond torte,
after Kimy has shown me photographs of Henry as a baby, a toddler, a high
school senior (to his extreme embarrassment); after Kimy has extracted more
information about my family ("How many rooms? That many! Hey, buddy, how
come you don't tell me she beautiful and rich?"), we all stand at the front door
and I thank Kimy for dinner and say good night to Mr. DeTamble.
"It was a pleasure, Clare," he says. "But you must call me Richard."
"Thank you.. .Richard." He takes my hand for a moment and for just that
moment I see him as Annette must have seen him, years ago-and then it's gone
and he nods awkwardly at Henry, who kisses Kimy, and we walk downstairs
and into the summer evening. It seems like years have passed since we went
inside.
"Whoosh," says Henry. "I died a thousand deaths, just watching that."
"Was I okay?"
"Okay? You were brilliant! He loved you!"
We are walking down the street, holding hands. There's a playground at the
end of the block and I run to the swings and climb on, and Henry takes the one
next to me, facing the opposite direction, and we swing higher and higher,
passing each other, sometimes in synch and sometimes streaming past each other
so fast it seems like we're going to collide, and we laugh, and laugh, and nothing
can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here,
and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.
Wednesday, June 10, 1992 (Clare is 21)
Clare: I'm sitting by myself at a tiny table in the front window of Cafe Peregolisi,
a venerable little rat hole with excellent coffee. I'm supposed to be working on a
paper on Alice in Wonderland for the History of the Grotesque class I'm taking this
summer; instead I'm daydreaming, staring idly at the natives, who are bustling
and hustling in the early evening of Halsted Street. I don't often come to Boy's
Town. I figure I will get more work done if I'm somewhere that no one I know
will think to look for me. Henry has disappeared. He's not home and he wasn't at
work today. I am trying not to worry about it. I am trying to cultivate a
nonchalant and carefree attitude. Henry can take care of himself. Just because I
have no idea where he might be doesn't mean anything is wrong. Who knows?
Maybe he's with me.
Someone is standing on the other side of the street, waving. I squint, focus,
and realize that it's the short black woman who was with Ingrid that night at the
Aragon. Celia. I wave back, and she crosses the street. Suddenly she's standing in
front of me. She is so small that her face is level with mine, although I am sitting
and she is standing.
"Hi, Clare," Celia says. Her voice is like butter. I want to wrap myself in her
voice and go to sleep.
"Hello, Celia. Have a seat." She sits, opposite me, and I realize that all of her
shortness is in her legs; sitting down she is much more normal looking.
"I hear tell you got engaged," she says.
I hold up my left hand, show her the ring. The waiter slouches over to us and
Celia orders Turkish coffee. She looks at me, and gives me a sly smile. Her teeth
are white and long and crooked. Her eyes are large and her eyelids hover
halfway closed as though she's falling asleep. Her dreadlocks are piled high and
decorated with pink chopsticks that match her shiny pink dress.
"You're either brave or crazy," she says.
"So people tell me."
"Well, by now you ought to know."
I smile, shrug, sip my coffee, which is room temperature and too sweet.
Celia says, "Do you know where Henry is right now?"
"No. Do you know where Ingrid is right now?"
"Uh-huh," Celia says. "She's sitting on a bar stool in Berlin, waiting on me."
She checks her watch. "I'm late." The light from the street turns her burnt-umber
skin blue and then purple. She looks like a glamorous Martian. She smiles at me.
"Henry is running down Broadway in his birthday suit with a pack of skinheads
on his tail" Oh, no.
The waiter brings Celia's coffee and I point at my cup. He refills it and I
carefully measure a teaspoon of sugar in and stir. Celia stands a demi-tasse
spoon straight up in the tiny cup of Turkish coffee. It is black and dense as
molasses. Once upon a time there were three little sisters. ..and they lived at the bottom of
a well... Why did they live at the bottom of a well?...It was a treacle well.
Celia is waiting for me to say something. Curtsy while you're thinking what to
say. It saves time. "Really?" I say. Oh, brilliant, Clare.
"You don't seem too worried. My man were running around in his altogether
like that I would wonder a little bit, myself."
"Yeah, well, Henry's not exactly the most average person."
Celia laughs. "You can say that again, sister." How much does she know?
Does Ingrid know? Celia leans toward me, sips her coffee, opens her eyes wide,
raises her eyebrows and purses her lips. "You really gonna marry him?"
A mad impulse makes me say, "If you don't believe me you can watch me do
it. Come to the wedding."
Celia shakes her head. "Me? You know, Henry don't like me at all. Not one
bit."
"Well, you don't seem to be a big fan of his, either."
Celia grins. "I am now. He dumped Miss Ingrid Carmichel hard, and I'm
picking up the pieces." She glances at her watch again. "Speaking of whom, I am
late for my date." Celia stands up, and says, "Why don't you come along?"
"Oh, no thanks."
"Come on, girl. You and Ingrid ought to get to know each other. You have so
much in common. We'll have a little bachelorette party."
"In Berlin?"
Celia laughs. "Not the city. The bar." Her laugh is caramel; it seems to
emanate from the body of someone much larger. I don't want her to go, but....
"No, I don't think that would be such a good idea." I look Celia in the eye. "It
seems mean." Her gaze holds me, and I think of snakes, of cats. Do cats eat bats?..
.Do bats eat cats? "Besides, I have to finish this."
Celia flashes a look at my notebook. "What, is that homework? Ohh, it's a
school night! Now just listen to your big sister Celia, who knows what's best for
little schoolgirls-hey, you old enough to drink?"
"Yes " I tell her proudly. "As of three weeks ago."
Celia leans close to me. She smells like cinnamon. "Come on come on come
on. You got to live it up a little before you settle down with Mr. Librarian Man.
Come oooooonnnn, Clare. Before you know it you be up to your ears in Librarian
babies shitting their Pampers full of that Dewey decimal system."
"I really don't think-"
"Then don't say nothin', just come on." Celia is packing up my books and
manages to knock over the little pitcher of milk. I start to mop it up but Celia just
marches out of the cafe holding my books. I rush after her.
"Celia, don't, I need those-" For someone with short legs and five-inch heels
she's moving fast.
"Uh-uh, I'm not giving 'em back till you promise you're coming with me."
"Ingrid won't like it." We are walking in step, heading south on Halstead
toward Belmont. I don't want to see Ingrid. The first and last time I saw her was
the Violent Femmes concert and that's fine with me.
"'Course she will. Ingrid's been very curious about you." We turn onto
Belmont, walk past tattoo parlors, Indian restaurants, leather shops and
storefront churches. We walk under the El and there's Berlin. It doesn't look too
enticing on the outside; the windows are painted black and I can hear disco
pulsating from the darkness behind the skinny freckled guy who cards me but
not Celia, stamps our hands and suffers us to enter the abyss.
As my eyes adjust I realize that the entire place is full of wom