hem in translucent strips of paper, coating them with
shellac until they transmit light. Now the sculptures hang from the high ceiling,
and squat on the floor. Some of them are kinetic, motorized: a few beat their
wings, and there are two cock skeletons slowly demolishing each other in a
corner. An eight-foot-tall pigeon dominates the entrance. Clare is exhausted, and
ecstatic. She's wearing a simple black silk dress, her hair is piled high on her
head. People have brought her flowers; she has a bouquet of white roses in her
arms, there's a heap of plastic-wrapped bouquets next to the guest book. It's very
crowded. People circle around, exclaim over each piece, crane their heads back to
look at the flying birds. Everyone congratulates Clare. There was a glowing
review in this morning's Tribune. All our friends are here, and Clare's family has
driven in from Michigan. They surround Clare now, Philip, Alicia, Mark and
Sharon and their kids, Nell, Etta. Charisse takes pictures of them, and they all
smile for her. When she gives us copies of the pictures, a few weeks from now, I
will be struck by the dark circles under Clare's eyes, and by how thin she looks.
I am holding Alba's hand. We stand by the back wall, out of the crowd. Alba
can't see anything, because everyone is tall, and so I lift her on to my shoulders.
She bounces.
Clare's family has dispersed and she is being introduced to a very
well-dressed elderly couple by Leah Jacobs, her dealer. Alba says, "I want
Mama."
"Mama's busy, Alba," I say. I am feeling queasy. I bend over and set Alba on
the floor. She puts her arms up. " No. I want Mama." I sit on the floor and put my
head between my knees. I need to find a place where no one can see me. Alba is
pulling my ear. "Don't, Alba," I say. I look up. My father is making his way to us
through the crowd. "Go," I tell Alba. I give her a little push. "Go see Grandpa."
She starts to whimper. "I don't see Grandpa. I want Mama." I am crawling toward
Dad. I bump into someone's legs. I hear Alba screaming, "Mama!" as I vanish.
Clare: There are masses of people. Everyone presses at me, smiling. I smile at
them. The show looks great, and it's done, it's up! I'm so happy, and so tired. My
face hurts from smiling. Everyone I know is here. I'm talking to Celia when I hear
a commotion at the back of the gallery, and then I hear Alba screaming, "Mama!"
Where is Henry? I try to get through the crowd to Alba. Then I see her: Richard
has lifted her up. People part to let me through. Richard hands Alba to me. She
locks her legs around my waist, buries her face in my shoulder, wraps her arms
around my neck, "Where's Daddy?" I ask her softly. "Gone," says Alba.
NATURE MORTE
Sunday, July 11, 2004 (Clare is 33, Henry is 41)
Clare: Henry is sleeping, bruised and caked with blood, on the kitchen floor. I
don't want to move him or wake him. I sit with him on the cool linoleum for a
while. Eventually I get up and make coffee. As the coffee streams into the pot and
the grounds make little exploding puffs, Henry whimpers and puts his hands
over his eyes. It's obvious that he has been beaten. One eye is swollen shut. The
blood seems to have come from his nose. I don't see any wounds, just radiant
purple fist-sized bruises all over his body. He is very thin; I can see all his
vertebrae and ribs. His pelvis juts, his cheeks are hollow. His hair has grown
down almost to his shoulders, there is gray shot through it. There are cuts on his
hands and feet, and insect bites everywhere on his body. He is very tanned, and
filthy, grime under nails, dirt sweated into creases of his skin. He smells of grass,
blood, and salt. After watching him and sitting with him for a while, I decide to
wake him. "Henry," I say very softly, "wake up, now, you're home...I stroke his
face, carefully, and he opens his eye. I can tell he's not quite awake. "Clare," he
mumbles. "Clare." Tears begin to stream from his good eye, he is shaking with
sobbing, and I pull him into my lap. I am crying. Henry is curled in my lap, there
on the floor, we shake tightly together, rocking, rocking, crying our relief and our
anguish together.
Thursday, December 23, 2004 (Clare is 33, Henry is 41)
Clare: It's the day before Christmas Eve. Henry is at Water Tower Place, taking
Alba to see Santa at Marshall Field's while I finish the shopping. Now I'm sitting
in the cafe at Border's Bookstore, drinking cappuccino at a table by the front
window and resting my feet with a pile of bulging shopping bags leaning against
my chair. Outside the window the day is fading and tiny white lights describe
every tree. Shoppers hurry up and down Michigan Avenue, and I can hear the
muted clang of the Salvation Army Santa's bell below me. I turn back to the store,
scanning for Henry and Alba, and someone calls my name. Kendrick is coming
toward me with his wife, Nancy, and Colin and Nadia in tow.
I can see at a glance that they've just come from FAO Schwarz; they have the
shell-shocked look of parents freshly escaped from toy-store hell. Nadia comes
running up to me squealing "Aunt Clare, Aunt Clare! Where's Alba?" Colin
smiles shyly and holds out his hand to show me that he has a tiny yellow tow
truck. I congratulate him and tell Nadia that Alba's visiting Santa, and Nadia
replies that she already saw Santa last week. "What did you ask for?" I query. "A
boyfriend," says Nadia. She's three years old. I grin at Kendrick and Nancy.
Kendrick says something, sotto voce, to Nancy, and she says, "Come on, troops,
we have to find a book for Aunt Silvie," and the three of them go pelting off to
the bargain tables. Kendrick gestures at the empty chair across from me. "May I?"
Sure.
He sits down, sighing deeply. "I hate Christmas."
"You and Henry both."
"Does he? I didn't know that." Kendrick leans against the window and closes
his eyes. Just as I think that he's actually asleep he opens them and says, "Is
Henry following his drug regimen?"
"Um, I guess. I mean, as closely as he can, considering that he's been time
traveling a lot lately."
Kendrick drums his fingers on the table. "How much is a lot?"
"Every couple days."
Kendrick looks furious. "Why doesn't he tell me these things?"
"I think he's afraid you'll get upset with him and quit."
"He's the only test subject I have who can talk and he never tells me anything!"
I laugh. "Join the club."
Kendrick says, "I'm trying to do science. I need him to tell me when something
doesn't work. Otherwise we're all just spinning our wheels."
I nod. Outside it has started to snow.
"Clare?"
"Hmm?"
"Why won't you let me look at Alba's DNA?"
I've had this conversation a hundred times with Henry. "Because first you'd
just want to locate all the markers in her genes, and that would be okay. But then
you and Henry would start to badger me to let you try out drugs on her, and that
is not okay. That's why."
"But she's still very young; she has a better chance of responding positively to
the medication."
"I said no. When Alba is eighteen she can decide for herself. So far, everything
you've given Henry has been a nightmare." I can't look at Kendrick. I say this to
my hands, tightly folded on the table.
"But we might be able to develop gene therapy for her-"
"People have died from gene therapy."
Kendrick is silent. The noise level in the store is overwhelming. Then from the
babble I hear Alba calling, "Mama!" I look up and see her riding on Henry's
shoulders, clutching his head with her hands. Both of them are wearing coonskin
caps. Henry sees Kendrick and for a brief moment he looks apprehensive and I
wonder what secrets these two men are keeping from me. Then Henry smiles and
comes striding toward us, Alba bobbing happily above the crowd. Kendrick rises
to greet him, and I push the thought away.
BIRTHDAY
Wednesday, May 24, 1989 (Henry is 41, Clare is 18)
Henry: I come to with a thud and skid across the painful stubble of the Meadow
on my side, ending up dirty and bloody at Clare's feet. She is sitting on the rock,
coolly immaculate in a white silk dress, white stockings and shoes, and short
white gloves. "Hello, Henry," she says, as though I have just dropped in for tea.
"What's up?" I ask. "You look like you're on your way to your first
communion."
Clare sits up very straight and says, "Today is May 24, 1989." I think fast.
"Happy birthday. Do you happen to have a Bee Gees outfit squirreled away
somewhere around here for me?" Without deigning to reply Clare glides off the
rock and, reaching behind it, produces a garment bag. With a flourish she unzips
it to reveal a tuxedo, pants, and one of those infernal formal shirts that require
studs. She produces a suitcase containing underwear, a cummerbund, a bow tie,
studs, and a gardenia. I am seriously alarmed, and not forewarned. I ponder the
available data. "Clare. We're not getting married today or anything insane like
that, are we? Because I know for a fact that our anniversary is in the fall. October.
Late October."
Clare turns away while I am dressing. "You mean you can't remember our
anniversary? How male."
I sigh. "Darling, you know I know, I just can't get at it right now. But anyway.
Happy Birthday."
"I'm eighteen."
"Heavens, so you are. It seems like only yesterday that you were six."
Clare is intrigued, as always, with the notion that I have recently visited some
other Clare, older or younger. "Have you seen me when I was six lately?"
"Well, just now I was lying in bed with you reading Emma. You were
thirty-three. I am forty-one at the moment, and feeling every minute." I comb
through my hair with my fingers and run my hand over my stubble, "I'm sorry,
Clare. I'm afraid I'm not at my best for your birthday." I fasten the gardenia
through the buttonhole of the tuxedo and start to do up the studs. "I saw you at
six about two weeks ago. You drew me a picture of a duck."
Clare blushes.