en. Women are
crowded around the tiny stage watching a female stripper strutting in a red
sequined G-string and pasties. Women are laughing and flirting at the bar. It's
Ladies' Night. Celia is pulling me toward a table. Ingrid is sitting there by herself
with a tall glass of sky blue liquid in front of her. She looks up and I can tell that
she's not too pleased to see me. Celia kisses Ingrid and waves me to a chair. I
remain standing.
"Hey, baby," Celia says to Ingrid.
"You've got to be kidding," says Ingrid. "What did you bring her for?" They
both ignore me. Celia still has her arms wrapped around my books.
"It's cool, Ingrid, she's all right. I thought y'all might want to become better
acquainted, that's all." Celia seems almost apologetic, but even I can see that
she's enjoying Ingrid's discomfort.
Ingrid glares at me. "Why did you come? To gloat?" She leans back in her
chair and tilts her chin up. Ingrid looks like a blond vampire, black
velvet jacket and blood red lips. She is ravishing. I feel like a small-town
school girl. I hold out my hands to Celia and she gives me my books.
"I was coerced. I'm leaving now." I begin to turn away but Ingrid shoots out a
hand and grabs my arm.
"Wait a minute-" She wrenches my left hand toward her, and I stumble and
my books go flying. I pull my hand back and Ingrid says,"- you're engaged?" and
I realize that she's looking at Henry's ring.
I say nothing. Ingrid turns to Celia. "You knew, didn't you?" Celia looks down
at the table, says nothing. "You brought her here to rub it in, you bitch." Her
voice is quiet. I can hardly hear her over the pulsing music.
"No, Ing, I just-"
"Fuck you, Celia." Ingrid stands up. For a moment her face is close to mine
and I imagine Henry kissing those red lips. Ingrid stares at me. She says, "You
tell Henry he can go to hell. And tell him I'll see him there." She stalks out. Celia
is sitting with her face in her hands.
I begin to gather up my books. As I turn to go Celia says, "Wait."
I wait.
Celia says, "I'm sorry, Clare." I shrug. I walk to the door, and when I turn back
I see that Celia is sitting alone at the table, sipping Ingrid's blue drink and
leaning her face against her hand. She is not looking at me.
Out on the street I walk faster and faster until I am at my car, and then I drive
home and I go to my room and I lie on my bed and I dial Henry's number but
he's not home and I turn out the light but I don't sleep.
BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY
Sunday, September 5, 1993 (Clare is 22, Henry is 30)
Clare: Henry is perusing his dog-eared copy of the Physicians' Desk Reference. Not
a good sign.
"I never realized you were such a drug fiend."
"I'm not a drug fiend. I'm an alcoholic."
"You're not an alcoholic"
"Sure I am."
I lie down on his couch and put my legs across his lap. Henry puts the book
on top of my shins and continues to page through it.
"You don't drink all that much."
"I used to. I slowed down somewhat after I almost killed myself. Also my dad
is a sad cautionary tale."
"What are you looking for?"
"Something I can take for the wedding. I don't want to leave you standing at
the altar in front of four hundred people."
"Yeah. Good idea." I ponder this scenario and shudder. "Let's elope."
He meets my eyes. "Let's. I'm all for it."
"My parents would disown me."
"Surely not."
"You haven't been paying attention. This is a major Broadway production. We
are just an excuse for my dad to entertain lavishly and impress all his lawyer
buddies. If we bowed out my parents would have to hire actors to impersonate
us."
"Let's go down to City Hall and get married beforehand. Then if anything
happens, at least we'll be married."
"Oh, but.. .1 wouldn't like that. It would be lying.. .1 would feel weird. How
about we do that after, if the real wedding gets messed up?"
"Okay. Plan B." He holds out his hand, and I shake it.
"So are you finding anything?"
"Well, ideally I would like a neuroleptic called Risperdal, but it won't be
marketed until 1994. The next best thing would be Clozaril, and a possible third
choice would be Haldol."
"They all sound like high-tech cough medicine."
"They're antipsychotics."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"You're not psychotic."
Henry looks at me and makes a horrible face and claws at the air like a silent
movie werewolf. Then he says, quite seriously, "On an EEG, I have the brain of a
schizophrenic. More than one doctor has insisted that this little time-travel
delusion of mine is due to schizophrenia. These drugs block dopamine
receptors."
"Side effects?"
"Well.. .dystonia, akathisia, pseudo-Parkinsonism. That is, involuntary
muscle contractions, restlessness, rocking, pacing, insomnia, immobility, lack of
facial expression. And then there's tardive dyskinsia, chronic uncontrollable
facial muscles, and agranulocytosis, the destruction of the body's ability to make
white blood cells. And then there's the loss of sexual function. And the fact that
all the drugs that are currently available are somewhat sedative."
"You're not seriously thinking of taking any of these, are you?"
"Well, I've taken Haldol in the past. And Thorazine."
"And..,?"
"Really horrible. I was totally zombified. It felt like my brain was full of
Elmer's Glue."
"Isn't there anything else?"
"Valium. Librium. Xanax."
"Mama takes those. Xanax and Valium."
"Yeah, that would make sense." He makes a face and sets the Physicians' Desk
Reference aside and says, "Move over." We adjust our positions on the couch until
we are lying side by side. It's very cozy.
"Don't take anything."
"Why not?"
"You're not sick."
Henry laughs. "That's what I love you for: your inability to perceive all my
hideous flaws." He's unbuttoning my shirt and I wrap my hand around his. He
looks at me, waiting. I am a little angry.
"I don't understand why you talk like that. You're always saying horrible
things about yourself. You aren't like that. You're good."
Henry looks at my hand and disengages his, and draws me closer. "I'm not
good," he says softly, in my ear. "But maybe I will be, hmmm?"
"You better be."
"I'm good to you." Too true. "Clare?"
"Hmmm?"
"Do you ever lie awake wondering if I'm some kind of joke God is playing on
you?"
"No. I lie awake worrying that you might disappear and never come back. I lie
awake brooding about some of the stuff I sort of half know about in the future.
But I have total faith in the idea that we are supposed to be together."
"Total faith."
"Don't you?"
Henry kisses me. ' "Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow/my least
desires unto the least remove.'"
"Come again?"
"I don't mind if I do."
"Braggart."
"Now who's saying horrible things about me?"
Monday, September 6, 1993 (Henry is 30)
Henry: I'm sitting on the stoop of a dingy white aluminum-sided house in
Humboldt Park. It's Monday morning, around ten. I'm waiting for Ben to get back
from wherever he is. I don't like this neighborhood very much; I feel kind of
exposed sitting here at Ben's door, but he's an extremely punctual guy, so I
continue to wait with confidence. I watch two young Hispanic women push baby
strollers along the pitched and broken sidewalk. As I meditate on the inequity of
city services, I hear someone yell "Library Boy!" in the distance. I look in the
direction of the voice and sure enough, it's Gomez. I groan inwardly; Gomez has
an amazing talent for running into me when I'm up to something particularly
nefarious. I will have to get rid of him before Ben shows up.
Gomez comes sailing toward me happily. He's wearing his lawyer outfit, and
carrying his briefcase. I sigh.
" Qa va, comrade."
" Qa va. What are you doing here?"
Good question. "Waiting on a friend. What time is it?"
"Quarter after ten. September 6,1993," he adds helpfully. "I know, Gomez. But
thanks anyway. You visiting a client?"
"Yeah. Ten-year-old girl. Mom's boyfriend made her drink Drano. I do get
tired of humans."
"Yeah. Too many maniacs, not enough Michelangelos."
"You had lunch? Or breakfast, I guess it would be?"
"Yeah. I kind of need to stay here, wait for my friend."
"I didn't know any of your friends lived out this way. All the people I know
over here are sadly in need of legal counsel."
"Friend from library school." And here he is. Ben drives up in his '62 silver
Mercedes. The inside is a wreck, but from the outside it's a sweet-looking car.
Gomez whistles softly.
"Sorry I'm late," Ben says, hurrying up the walk. "Housecall." Gomez looks at
me inquisitively. I ignore him. Ben looks at Gomez, and at me.
"Gomez, Ben. Ben, Gomez. So sorry you have to leave, comrade."
"Actually, I've got a couple hours free-"
Ben takes the situation in hand. "Gomez. Great meeting you. Some other time,
yes?" Ben is quite nearsighted, and he peers kindly at Gomez through his thick
glasses that magnify his eyes to twice their normal size. Ben's jingling his keys in
his hand. It's making me nervous. We both stand quietly, waiting for Gomez to
leave. "Okay. Yeah. Well, bye," says Gomez.
"I'll call you this afternoon" I tell him. He turns without looking at me and
walks away. I feel bad, but there are things I don't want Gomez to know, and this
is one of them. Ben and I turn to each other, share a look that acknowledges the
fact that we know things about each other that are problematic. He opens his
front door. I have always itched to try my hand at breaking into Ben's place,
because he has a large number and variety of locks and security devices. We
enter the dark narrow hall. It always smells like cabbage in here, even though I
know for a fact that Ben never cooks much in the way of food, let alone cabbage.
We walk to the back stairway, up and into another hallway, through one
bedroom and into another, which Ben has set up as a lab. He sets down his bag
and hangs up his jacket. I half expect him to put on some tennis shoes, a la Mr.
Rogers, but instead 