semary s Baby. Maybe I could go on strike. Sure, that's it; a
sex strike. I laugh to myself. The sound is swallowed by the waves gently
lapping the pier. Fat chance. I'd be groveling on my knees within days.
My head hurts. I try to ignore it; I know it's because I'm tired. I wonder if I
could sleep on the beach without anyone bothering me. It's a beautiful night. Just
at this moment I am startled by an intense beam of light that pans across the pier
and into my face and suddenly I'm in Kimy's kitchen, lying on my back under her
kitchen table, surrounded by the legs of chairs. Kimy is seated in one of the
chairs and is peering at me under the table. My left hip is pressing against her
shoes.
"Hi, buddy," I say weakly. I feel like I'm about to pass out.
"You gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, buddy," Kimy says. She
prods me with her foot. "Get out from under there and put on some clothes."
I flop over and back out from under the table on my knees. Then I curl up on
the linoleum and rest for a moment, gathering my wits and trying not to gag.
"Henry.. .you okay?" She leans over me. "You want something to eat? You
want some soup? I got minestrone soup...Coffee?" I shake my head. "You want to
lie on the couch? You sick?"
"No, Kimy, it's okay, I'll be okay." I manage to get to my knees and then to my
feet. I stagger into the bedroom and open Mr. Kim's closet, which is almost
empty except for a few pairs of neatly pressed jeans in various sizes ranging from
small boy to grown-up, and several crisp white shirts, my little clothing stash,
ready and waiting. Dressed, I walk back to the kitchen, lean over Kimy, and give
her a peck on the cheek. "What's the date?"
"September 8, 1998. Where you from?"
"Next July." We sit down at the table. Kimy is doing the New York Times
crossword puzzle.
"What's going on, next July?"
"It's been a very cool summer, your garden's looking good. All the tech stocks
are up. You should buy some Apple stock in January."
She makes a note on a piece of brown paper bag. "Okay. And you? How are
you doing? How's Clare? You guys got a baby yet?"
"Actually, I am hungry. How about some of that soup you were mentioning?"
Kimy lumbers out of her chair and opens the fridge. She gets out a saucepan
and starts to heat up some soup. "You didn't answer my question."
"No news, Kimy. No baby. Clare and I fight about it just about every waking
moment. Please don't start on me."
Kimy has her back to me. She stirs the soup vigorously. Her back radiates
chagrin. "I'm not 'starting on you,' I just ask, okay? I just wondering. Sheesh."
We are silent for a few minutes. The noise of the spoon scraping the bottom of
the saucepan is getting to me. I think about Clare, looking out the window at me
as I drove away.
"Hey, Kimy."
"Hey, Henry."
"How come you and Mr. Kim never had kids?"
Long silence. Then: "We did have child."
"You did?"
She pours the steaming soup into one of the Mickey Mouse bowls I loved
when I was a kid. She sits down and runs her hands over her hair, smoothes the
white straggling hairs into the little bun at the back. Kimy looks at me. "Eat your
soup. I be right back." She gets up and walks out of the kitchen, and I hear her
shuffling down the plastic runner that covers the carpeting in the hall. I eat the
soup. It's almost gone when she comes back.
"Here. This is Min. She is my baby." The photograph is black and white,
blurry. In it a young girl, perhaps five or six years old, stands in front of Mrs.
Kim's building, this building, the building I grew up in. She is wearing a Catholic
school uniform, smiling, and holding an umbrella. "It's her first day school. She is
so happy, so scared."
I study the photo. I am afraid to ask. I look up. Kimy is staring out the
window, over the river. "What happened?"
"Oh. She died. Before you were born. She had leukemia, she die."
I suddenly remember. "Did she used to sit out in a rocker in the backyard? In
a red dress?"
Mrs. Kim stares at me, startled. "You see her?"
"Yes, I think so. A long time ago. When I was about seven. I was standing on
the steps to the river, buck naked, and she told me I better not come into her
yard, and I told her it was my yard and she didn't believe me. I couldn't figure it
out." I laugh. "She told me her mom was gonna spank me if I didn't go away."
Kimy laughs shakily. "Well, she right, huh?"
"Yeah, she was just off by a few years."
Kimy smiles. "Yeah, Min, she a little firecracker. Her dad call her Miss Big
Mouth. He loved her very much." Kimy turns her head, surreptitiously touches
her hand to her eyes. I remember Mr. Kim as a taciturn man who spent most of
his time sitting in his armchair watching sports on TV.
"What year was Min born?"
"1949. She died 1956. Funny, she would be middle-aged lady with kids now,
herself. She would be forty-nine years old. Kids would be maybe in college,
maybe a little older." Kimy looks at me, and I look back at her.
"We're trying, Kimy. We're trying everything we can think of."
"I didn't say nothing."
"Uh-huh."
Kimy bats her eyelashes at me like she's Louise Brooks or somebody. "Hey,
buddy, I am stuck on this crossword. Nine down, starts with K-"
Clare: I watch the police divers swim out into Lake Michigan. It's an overcast
morning, already very hot. I am standing on the Dempster Street pier. There are
five fire engines, three ambulances, and seven squad cars standing on Sheridan
Road with their lights blinking and flashing. There are seventeen firemen and six
paramedics. There are fourteen policemen and one policewoman, a short fat
white woman whose head seems squashed by her cap, who keeps saying stupid
platitudes intended to comfort me until I want to push her off the pier. I'm
holding Henry's clothes. It's five o'clock in the morning. There are twenty-one
reporters, some of whom are TV reporters with trucks and microphones and
video people, and some of whom are print reporters with photographers. There
is an elderly couple hanging around the edges of the action, discreet but curious.
I try not to think about the policeman's description of Henry jumping off the end
of the pier, caught in the beam of the police car searchlight. I try not to think.
Two new policemen come walking down the pier. They confer with some of
the police who are already here, and then one of them, the older one, detaches
and walks to me. He has a handlebar mustache, the old-fashioned kind that ends
in little points. He introduces himself as Captain Michels, and asks me if I can
think of any reason my husband might have wanted to take his own life.
"Well, I really don't think he did, Captain. I mean, he's a very good swimmer,
he's probably just swimming to, urn, Wilmette or someplace"-
I wave my hand vaguely to the north-"and he'll be back any time now...."
The Captain looks dubious. "Does he make a habit of swimming in toe
middle of the night?" He's an insomniac. "Had you been arguing? Was he
upset?"
"No," I lie. "Of course not." I look out over the water. I am sure I don't sound
very convincing. "I was sleeping and he must have decided to go swimming and
he didn't want to wake me up."
"Did he leave a note?"
"No." As I rack my brains for a more realistic explanation I hear a splash near
the shore. Hallelujah. Not a moment too soon. "There he is!" Henry starts to
stand up in the water, hears me yell, and ducks down again and swims to the
pier.
"Clare. What's going on?"
I kneel on the pier. Henry looks tired, and cold. I speak quietly. "They thought
you drowned. One of them saw you throw yourself off the pier. They've been
searching for your body for two hours."
Henry looks worried, but also amused. Anything to annoy the police. All the
police have clustered around me and they are peering down at Henry silently.
"Are you Henry DeTamble?" asks the captain.
"Yes. Would you mind if I got out of the water?" We all follow Henry to the
shore, Henry swimming and the rest of us walking along beside him on the pier.
He climbs out of the water and stands dripping on the beach like a wet rat. I hand
him his shirt, which he uses to dry himself off. He puts on the rest of his clothes,
and stands calmly, waiting for the police to figure out what they want to do with
him. I want to kiss him and then kill him. Or vice versa. Henry puts his arm
around me. He is clammy and damp. I lean close to him, for his coolness, and he
leans into me, for warmth. The police ask him questions. He answers them very
politely. These are the Evanston police, with a few Morton Grove and Skokie
police who have come by just for the heck of it. If they were Chicago police they
would know Henry, and they would arrest him.
"Why didn't you respond when the officer told you to get out of the water?"
"I was wearing earplugs, Captain."
"Earplugs?"
"To keep the water out of my ears." Henry makes a show of digging in his
pockets. "I don't know where they got to. I always wear earplugs when I swim."
"Why were you swimming at three o'clock in the morning?"
"I couldn't sleep "
And so on. Henry lies seamlessly, marshaling the facts to support his thesis. In
the end, grudgingly, the police issue him a citation, for swimming when the
beach is officially closed. It's a $500 fine. When the police let us go, the reporters
and photographers and TV cameras converge on us as we walk to the car. No
comment. Just out for a swim. Please, we would really rather not have our
picture taken. Click. We finally make it to the car, which is sitting all by itself
with the keys in it on Sheridan Road. I start the ignition and roll down my
window. The police and the reporters and the elderly couple are all standing on
the grass, watching us. We are not looking at each other.
"Clare."
"Henry."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." He looks over at me, touches my hand on the steering wheel. We
drive home in silence.
Friday, January 14, 2000 (Clare is 28, H