the students who interest
me. They are all about ten or so, fifth grade, I guess that would be. It's a Catholic
school, so they all wear identical clothes, green plaid for the girls and navy blue
for the boys. They are attentive and polite, but not excited. Too bad; I would
think Cornell would be perfect for kids. The docent seems to think they are
younger than they are; she talks to them as though they are little children. There's
a girl in the back row who seems more engaged than the rest. I can't see her face.
She has long curly black hair and a peacock-blue dress, which sets her apart from
her peers. Every time the docent asks a question, this girl's hand goes up, but the
docent never calls on her. I can see that the girl is getting fed up.
The docent is talking about Cornell's Aviary boxes. Each box is bleak, and
many have white, painted interiors with perches and the kind of holes that a
birdhouse would have, and some have pictures of birds. They are the starkest
and most austere of his pieces, without the whimsy of the Soap Bubble Sets or the
romance of the Hotel boxes.
"Why do you think Mr. Cornell made these boxes?" The docent brightly scans
the children for a reply, ignoring the peacock-blue girl, who is waving her hand
like she has Saint Vitus' Dance. A boy in the front says shyly that the artist must
have liked birds. This is too much for the girl She stands up with her hand in the
air. The docent reluctantly says, "Yes?"
"He made the boxes because he was lonely. He didn't have anyone to love,
and he made the boxes so he could love them, and so people would know that he
existed, and because birds are free and the boxes are hiding places for the birds
so they will feel safe, and he wanted to be free and be safe. The boxes are for him
so he can be a bird." The girl sits down.
I am blown away by her answer. This is a ten-year-old who can empathize
with Joseph Cornell. Neither the docent nor the class exactly knows what to make
of this, but the teacher, who is obviously used to her, says, "Thank you, Alba,
that's very perceptive." She turns and smiles gratefully at the teacher, and I see
her face, and I am looking at my daughter. I have been standing in the next
gallery, and I take a few steps forward, to look at her, to see her, and she sees me,
and her face lights up, and she jumps up, knocks over her little folding chair, and
almost before I know it I am holding Alba in my arms, holding her tight, kneeling
before her with my arms around her as she says "Daddy" over and over.
Everyone is gaping at us. The teacher hurries over.
She says, "Alba, who is this? Sir, who are you?"
"I'm Henry DeTamble, Alba's father."
"He's my daddy!"
The teacher is almost wringing her hands. "Sir, Alba's father is dead."
I am speechless. But Alba, daughter mine, has a grip on the situation.
"He's dead," she tells her teacher. "But he's not continuously dead."
I find my wits. "It's kind of hard to explain-"
"He's a CDP," says Alba. "Like me." This seems to make perfect sense to the
teacher although it means nothing to me. The teacher is a bit pale under her
makeup but she looks sympathetic. Alba squeezes my hand. Say something, is
what she means.
"Ah, Ms.-"
"Cooper."
"Ms. Cooper, is there any possibility that Alba and I could have a few
minutes, here, to talk? We don't see each other much."
"Well...I just...we're on a field trip...the group...I can't let you just take the child
away from the group, and I don't really know that you are Mr. DeTamble, you
see...."
"Let's call Mama," says Alba. She runs over to her school bag and whips out a
cell phone. She presses a key and I hear the phone ringing and I'm rapidly
realizing that there are possibilities here: someone picks up on the other end, and
Alba says "Mama?...I'm at the Art Institute...No, I'm okay...Mama, Daddy's here!
Tell Mrs. Cooper it's really Daddy, okay?... Yeah, 'k, bye!" She hands me the
phone. I hesitate, pull my head together.
"Clare?" There's a sharp intake of breath. "Clare?"
" Henry! Oh, God, I can't believe it! Come home!"
"I'll try...."
"When are you from?"
"2001. Just before Alba was born." I smile at Alba. She is leaning against me,
holding my hand.
"Maybe I should come down there?"
"That would be faster. Listen, could you tell this teacher that I'm really me?"
"Sure-where will you be?"
"At the lions. Come as fast as you can, Clare. It won't be much longer."
"I love you."
"I love you, Clare." I hesitate, and then hand the phone to Mrs. Cooper. She
and Clare have a short conversation, in which Clare somehow convinces her to let
me take Alba to the museum entrance, where Clare will meet us. I thank Mrs.
Cooper, who has been pretty graceful in a weird situation, and Alba and I walk
hand in hand out of the Morton Wing, down the spiral staircase and into Chinese
ceramics. My mind is racing-What to ask first?
Alba says, "Thank you for the videos. Mama gave them to me for my
birthday." What videos? "I can do the Yale and the Master, and I'm working on
the Walters."
Locks. She's learning to pick locks. "Great. Keep at it. Listen, Alba?"
"Daddy?"
"What's a CDP?"
"Chrono-Displaced Person." We sit down on a bench in front of a Tang
Dynasty porcelain dragon. Alba sits facing me, with her hands in her lap. She
looks exactly like me at ten. I can hardly believe any of this. Alba isn't even born
yet and here she is, Athena sprung full blown. I level with her. "You know, this is
the first time I've met you."
Alba smiles. "How do you do?" She is the most self-possessed child I've ever
met. I scrutinize her: where is Clare in this child? "Do we see each other much?"
She considers. "Not much. It's been about a year. I saw you a few times when I
was eight."
"How old were you when I died?" I hold my breath. "Five." Jesus. I can't deal
with this.
"I'm sorry! Should I not have said that?" Alba is contrite. I hug her to me. "It's
okay. I asked, didn't I?" I take a deep breath. "How is Clare?"
"Okay. Sad." This pierces me. I realize I don't want to know anything more.
"What about you? How's school? What are you learning?"
Alba grins. "I'm not learning much in school, but I'm reading all about early
instruments, and Egypt, and Mama and I are reading Lord of the Rings, and I'm
learning a tango by Astor Piazzolla."
At ten? Heavens. "Violin? Who's your teacher?"
"Gramps." For a moment I think she means my grandfather, and then I realize
she means Dad. This is great. If Dad is spending time with Alba, she must
actually be good.
"Are you good?" What a rude question.
"Yes. I'm very good."
"Thank God. I was never any good at music."
That's what Gramps says." She giggles. "But you like music." I love music. I
just can't play it, myself." I heard Grandma Annette sing! She was so beautiful."
"Which recording?" I saw her for real. At the Lyric. She was singing Aida."
He's a CDP, like me. Oh, shit. "You time travel."
"Sure." Alba smiles happily. "Mama always says you and I are exactly alike.
Dr. Kendrick says I am a prodigy"
"How so?"
"Sometimes I can go when and where I want." Alba looks pleased with
herself; I'm so envious.
"Can you not go at all if you don't want to?"
"Well, no," She looks embarrassed. "But I like it. I mean, sometimes it's not
convenient, but...it's interesting, you know?" Yes. I know.
"Come and visit me, if you can be anytime you want."
"I tried. I saw you once on the street; you were with a blond woman. You
seemed like you maybe were busy, though." Alba blushes and all of a sudden
Clare peeks out at me, for just a tiny fraction of a second.
"That was Ingrid. I dated her before I met your mom." I wonder what we were
doing, Ing and I, back then, that Alba is so discomfited by; I feel a pang of regret,
that I made a poor impression on this sober and lovely girl. "Speaking of your
mom, we should go out front and wait for her." The high-pitched whining noise
has set in, and I just hope Clare will get here before I'm gone. Alba and I get up
and quickly make our way to the front steps. It's late fall, and Alba doesn't have a
coat, so I wrap mine around both of us. I am leaning against the granite slab that
supports one of the lions, facing south, and Alba leans against me, encased in my
coat, pressed against my bare torso with just her face sticking out at the level of
my chest. It's a rainy day. Traffic swims along on Michigan Avenue. I am drunk
with the overwhelming love I feel for this amazing child, who presses against me
as though she belongs to me, as though we will never be separated, as though we
have all the time in the world. I am clinging to this moment, fighting fatigue and
the pulling of my own time. Let me stay, I implore my body, God, Father Time,
Santa, anybody who might be listening. Just let me see Clare, and I'll come along
peacefully.
"There's Mama ," says Alba. A white car, unfamiliar to me, is speeding toward
us. It pulls up to the intersection and Clare jumps out, leaving it where it is,
blocking traffic.
"Henry!" I try to run to her, she is running, and I collapse onto the steps, and I
stretch out my arms toward Clare: Alba is holding me and yelling something and
Clare is only a few feet from me and I use my last reserves of will to look at Clare
who seems so far away and I say as clearly as I can "I love you," and I'm gone.
Damn. Damn.
7:20p.m. Friday, August 24, 2001 (Clare is 30, Henry is 38)
Clare: I am lying on the battered chaise lounge in the backyard with books and
magazines cast adrift all around me and a half-drunk glass of lemonade now
diluted with melted ice cubes at my elbow. It's beginning to cool off a bit. It was
eighty-five degrees earlier; now there's a breeze and the cicadas are singing their
late summer song. Fifteen jets have passed over me on their way to O'Hare from
distances unknown. My belly looms before me, anchoring me to this spot. Henry
has been gone since eight o'clock 