s, and then jumps off the
bed and says, "Come in, have a seat." Richard is carrying flowers and a small
teddy bear which Henry adds to the pile on the windowsill.
"Clare," says Richard. "I-congratulations." He sinks slowly into the chair
beside the bed.
"Um, would you like to hold her?" Henry asks softly. Richard nods, looking
at me to see if I agree. Richard looks as though he hasn't slept for days. His shirt
needs ironing and he stinks of sweat and the iodine reek of old beer. I smile at
him although I am wondering if this is such a hot idea. I hand Alba over to Henry
who carefully transfers her into Richard's awkward arms. Alba turns her pink
round face up to Richard's long unshaven one, turns toward his chest and
searches for a nipple. After a moment she gives up and yawns, then goes back to
sleep. He smiles. I had forgotten how Richard's smile can transform his face.
"She's beautiful," he tells me. And, to Henry, "She looks like your mother."
Henry nods. "There's your violinist, Dad." He smiles. "It skipped a
generation."
"A violinist?" Richard looks down at the sleeping baby, black hair and tiny
hands, fast asleep. No one ever looked less like a concert violinist than Alba does
right now. "A violinist." He shakes his head. "But how do you- No, never mind.
So you are a violinist, are you now, little girl?" Alba sticks out her tongue a tiny
bit and we all laugh.
"She'll need a teacher, once she's old enough," I suggest.
"A teacher? Yes...You're not going to hand her over to those Suzuki idiots, are
you?" Richard demands.
Henry coughs. "Er, actually we were hoping that if you had nothing better to
do..."
Richard gets it. It's a pleasure to see him comprehend, to see him realize that
someone needs him, that only he can give his only granddaughter the training
she will need.
"I'd be delighted," he says, and Alba's future unrolls in front of her like a red
carpet as far as the eye can see.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001 (Clare is 30, Henry is 38)
Clare: I wake up at 6:43 and Henry is not in bed. Alba isn't in her crib, either. My
breasts hurt. My cunt hurts. Everything hurts. I get out of bed very carefully, go
to the bathroom. I walk through the hall, the dining room, slowly. In the living
room Henry is sitting on the couch with Alba cradled in his arms, not watching
the little black and white television with the sound turned low. Alba is asleep. I
sit down next to Henry. He puts his arm around me.
"How come you're up?" I ask him. "I thought you said it wasn't for a couple of
hours yet?" On the TV a weatherman is smiling and pointing at a satellite picture
of the Midwest.
"I couldn't sleep," Henry says. "I wanted to listen to the world being normal
for a little while longer."
"Oh." I lean my head on Henry's shoulder and close my eyes. When I open
them again a commercial for a cell phone company is ending and a commercial
for bottled water comes on. Henry hands Alba to me and gets up. In a minute I
hear him making breakfast. Alba wakes up and I undo my nightgown and feed
her. My nipples hurt. I watch the television. A blond anchorperson tells me
something, smiling. He and the other anchorperson, an Asian woman, laugh and
smile at me. At City Hall, Mayor Daley is answering questions. I doze. Alba
sucks at me. Henry brings in a tray of eggs, toast, and orange juice. I want coffee.
Henry has tactfully drunk his in the kitchen, but I can smell it on his breath. He
sets the tray on the coffee table and puts my plate on my lap. I eat my eggs as
Alba nurses. Henry mops up yolk with his toast. On TV a bunch of kids are
skidding across grass, to demonstrate the effectiveness of some laundry
detergent. We finish eating; Alba finishes, too. I burp her and Henry takes all the
dishes to the kitchen. When he comes back I pass her to him and head to the
bathroom. I take a shower. The water is so hot I almost can't stand it, but it feels
heavenly on my sore body. I breathe the steamy air, dry my skin gingerly, rub
balm on my lips, breasts, stomach. The mirror is all steamed up, so I don't have
to see myself. I comb my hair. I pull on sweatpants and a sweater. I feel
deformed, deflated. In the living room Henry is sitting with his eyes closed, and
Alba is sucking her thumb. As I sit down again Alba opens her eyes and makes a
mewing sound. Her thumb slips out of her mouth and she looks confused. A
Jeep is driving through a desert landscape. Henry has turned off the sound. He
massages his eyes with his fingers. I fall asleep again.
Henry says, "Wake up, Clare." I open my eyes. The television picture swerves
around. A city street. A sky. A white skyscraper on fire. An airplane, toylike,
slowly flies into the second white tower. Silent flames shoot up. Henry turns up
the sound. "Oh my god," says the voice of the television. "Oh my god."
Tuesday, June 11, 2002 (Clare is 31)
CLARE: I'm making a drawing of Alba. At this moment Alba is nine months and
five days old. She is sleeping on her back, on a small light blue flannel blanket,
on the yellow ochre and magenta Chinese rug on the living room floor. She has
just finished nursing. My breasts are light, almost empty. Alba is so very asleep
that I feel perfectly okay about walking out the back door and across the yard
into my studio.
For a minute I stand in the doorway inhaling the slightly musty unused studio
odor. Then I rummage around in my flat file, find some persimmon-tanned paper
that looks like cowhide, grab a few pastels and other implements and a drawing
board and walk (with only a small pang of regret) out the door and back into the
house.
The house is very quiet. Henry is at work (I hope) and I can hear the washing
machine churning away in the basement. The air conditioner whines. There's a
faint rumble of traffic on Lincoln Avenue. I sit down on the rug next to Alba. A
trapezoid of sunlight is inches away from her small pudgy feet. In half an hour it
will cover her.
I clip my paper to the drawing board and arrange my pastels next to me on the
rug. Pencil in hand, I consider my daughter.
Alba is sleeping deeply. Her ribcage rises and falls slowly and I can hear the
soft grunt she makes with each exhalation. I wonder if she's getting a cold. It's
warm in here, on this June late afternoon, and Alba's wearing a diaper and
nothing else. She's a little flushed. Her left hand is clenching and unclenching
rhythmically. Maybe she's dreaming music.
I begin to rough in Alba's head, which is turned toward me. I am not thinking
about this, really. My hand is moving across the paper like the needle of a
seismograph, recording Alba's form as I absorb it with my eyes. I note the way
her neck disappears in the folds of baby fat under her chin, how the soft
indentations above her knees alter slightly as she kicks, once, and is still again.
My pencil describes the convexity of Alba's full belly which submerges into the
top of her diaper, an abrupt and angular line cutting across her roundness. I
study the paper, adjust the angle of Alba's legs, redraw the crease where her right
arm joins her torso.
I begin to lay in pastel. I start by sketching in highlights in white- down her
tiny nose, along her left side, across her knuckles, her diaper, the edge of her left
foot. Then I rough in shadows, in dark green and ultramarine. A deep shadow
clings to Alba's right side where her body meets the blanket. It's like a pool of
water, and I put it in solidly. Now the Alba in the drawing suddenly becomes
three-dimensional, leaps off the page.
I use two pink pastels, a light pink the hue of the inside of a shell and a dark
pink that reminds me of raw tuna. With rapid strokes I make Alba's skin. It is as
though Alba's skin was hidden in the paper, and I am removing some invisible
substance that concealed it. Over this pastel skin I use a cool violet to make
Alba's ears and nose and mouth (her mouth is slightly open in a tiny O). Her
black and abundant hair becomes a mixture of dark blue and black and red on
the paper. I take care with her eyebrows, which seem so much like furry
caterpillars that have found a home on Alba's face.
The sunlight covers Alba now. She stirs, brings her small hand over her eyes,
and sighs. I write her name, and my name, and the date at the bottom of the
paper.
The drawing is finished. It will serve as a record-I loved you, I made you, and
I made this for you-long after I am gone, and Henry is gone, and even Alba is
gone. It will say, we made you, and here you are, here and now.
Alba opens her eyes and smiles.
SECRET
Sunday, October 12, 2003 (Clare is 32, Henry is 40)
Clare: This is a secret: sometimes I am glad when Henry is gone. Sometimes I
enjoy being alone. Sometimes I walk through the house late at night and I shiver
with the pleasure of not talking, not touching, just walking, or sitting, or taking a
bath. Sometimes I lie on the living room floor and listen to Fleetwood Mac, the
Bangles, the B-52's, the Eagles, bands Henry can't stand. Sometimes I go for long
walks with Alba and I don't leave a note saying where I am. Sometimes I meet
Celia for coffee, and we talk about Henry, and Ingrid, and whoever Celia's seeing
that week. Sometimes I hang out with Charisse and Gomez, and we don't talk
about Henry, and we manage to enjoy ourselves. Once I went to Michigan and
when I came back Henry was still gone and I never told him I had been
anywhere. Sometimes I get a baby-sitter and I go to the movies or I ride my
bicycle after dark along the bike path by Montrose beach with no lights; it's like
flying.
Sometimes I am glad when Henry's gone, but I'm always glad when he comes
back.
EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES
Friday, May 7, 2004 (Henry is 40, Clare is 32)
Henry: We are at the opening of Clare's exhibit at the Chicago Cultural Center.
She has been working nonstop for a year, building huge, ethereal bird skeletons
out of wire, wrapping t