lly, and we do.
Sunday, June 12, 2005 (Clare is 34, Henry is 41)
Clare: It's a sunny Sunday afternoon, and I walk into the kitchen to find Henry
standing by the window staring out at the backyard. He beckons me over. I stand
beside him and look out. Alba is playing in the yard with an older girl. The girl is
about seven. She has long dark hair and she is barefoot. She wears a dirty T-shirt
with the Cubs' logo on it. They are both sitting on the ground, facing each other.
The girl has her back to us. Alba is smiling at her and gesturing with her hands as
though she is flying. The girl shakes her head and laughs.
I look at Henry. "Who is that?"
"That's Alba."
"Yes, but who's with her?"
Henry smiles, but his eyebrows pull together so that the smile seems worried.
"Clare, that's Alba when she's older. She's time traveling."
"My God." I stare at the girl. She swivels and points at the house, and I see a
quick profile and then she turns away again. "Should we go out there?"
"No, she's fine. If they want to come in here they will."
"I'd love to meet her...."
"Better not-" Henry begins, but as he speaks the two Albas jump up and come
racing toward the back door, hand in hand. They burst into the kitchen laughing.
"Mama, Mama," says my Alba, three-year-old Alba, pointing, "look! A big girl
Alba!"
The other Alba grins and says, "Hi, Mama " and I am smiling and I say,
"Hello, Alba," when she turns and sees Henry and cries out, "Daddy!" and runs
to him, throws her arms around him, and starts to cry. Henry glances at me,
bends over Alba, rocking her, and whispers something in her ear.
Henry: Clare is white-faced; she stands watching us, holding small Alba's hand,
Alba who stands watching open-mouthed as her older self clings to me, weeping.
I lean down to Alba, whisper in her ear: " Don't tell Mama I died, okay?" She looks
up at me, tears clinging to her long lashes, lips quivering, and nods. Clare is
holding a tissue, telling Alba to blow her nose, hugging her. Alba allows herself
to be led off to wash her face. Small Alba, present Alba, wraps herself around my
leg. "Why, Daddy? Why is she sad?" Fortunately I don't have to answer because
Clare and Alba have returned; Alba is wearing one of Clare's T-shirts and a pair
of my cutoffs. Clare says, "Hey, everybody. Why don't we go get an ice cream?"
Both Albas smile; small Alba dances around us yelling "I scream, you scream, I
scream, you scream..." We pile into the car, Clare driving, three-year-old Alba in
the front seat and seven-year-old Alba in the backseat with me. She leans against
me; I put my arm around her. Nobody says a word except little Alba, who says,
"Look, Alba, a doggie! Look, Alba, look, Alba..." until her older self says, "Yeah,
Alba, I see." Clare drives us to Zephyr; we settle into a blue glitter vinyl booth
and order two banana splits, a chocolate malt, and a soft-serve vanilla cone with
sprinkles, The girls suck down their banana splits like vacuum cleaners; Clare
and I toy with our ice cream, not looking at each other. Clare says, "Alba, what's
going on, in your present?"
Alba darts a look at me. "Not much," she says. "Gramps is teaching me
Saint-Saens' second violin concerto."
"You're in a play, at school," I prompt.
"I am?" she says. "Not yet, I guess."
"Oh, sorry," I say. "I guess that's not till next year." It goes on like this. We
make halting conversation, working around what we know, what we must
protect Clare and small Alba from knowing. After a while older Alba puts her
head in her arms on the table. "Tired?" Clare asks her. She nods. "We'd better
go," I tell Clare. We pay, and I pick Alba up; she's limp, almost asleep in my
arms. Clare scoops up little Alba, who's hyper from all the sugar. Back in the car,
as we're cruising up Lincoln Avenue, Alba vanishes. "She's gone back " I say to
Clare. She holds my eyes in the rearview mirror for a few moments. "Back where,
Daddy?" asks Alba. "Back where?"
Later:
Clare: I've finally managed to get Alba to take a nap. Henry is sitting on our bed,
drinking Scotch and staring out the window at some squirrels chasing each other
around the grape arbor. I walk over and sit down next to him. "Hey" I say. Henry
looks at me, puts his arm around me, pulls me to him. "Hey" he says.
"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" I ask him.
Henry puts down his drink and starts to undo the buttons on my shirt. "Can I
get away with not telling you?"
"No." I unbuckle his belt and open the button of his jeans.
"Are you sure?" He's kissing my neck.
"Yes." I slide his zipper down, run my hand under his shirt, over his stomach.
"Because you don't really want to know." Henry breathes into my ear and
runs his tongue around the rim. I shiver. He takes off my shirt, undoes the clasp
of my bra. My breasts fall loose and I lie back, watching Henry stripping off his
jeans and underwear and shirt. He climbs onto the bed and I say, "Socks."
"Oh, yeah." He takes off his socks. We look at each other.
"You're just trying to distract me " I say.
Henry caresses my stomach. "I'm trying to distract myself. If I also manage to
distract you, that's a bonus."
"You have to tell me."
"No, I don't." He cups my breasts in his hands, runs his thumbs over my
nipples.
"I'll imagine the worst."
"Go ahead." I raise my hips and Henry pulls off my jeans and my underwear.
He straddles me, leans over me, kisses me. Oh, God, I think, what can it be? What is
the worst? I close my eyes. A memory: the Meadow, a cold day in my childhood, running
over dead grass, there was a noise, he called my name-
"Clare?" Henry is biting my lips, gently. "Where are you?"
"1984."
Henry pauses and says, "Why?"
"I think that's where it happens."
"Where what happens?"
"Whatever it is you're afraid to tell me."
Henry rolls off of me and we are lying side by side. "Tell me about it," he
says.
"It was early. A day in the fall. Daddy and Mark were out deer hunting. I
woke up; I thought I heard you calling me, and I ran out into the meadow, and
you were there, and you and Daddy and Mark were all looking at something, but
Daddy made me go back to the house, so I never saw what you were looking at."
"Oh?"
"I went back there later in the day. There was a place in the grass all soaked in
blood."
Henry says nothing. He presses his lips together. I wrap my arms around him,
hold him tightly. I say, "The worst-"
"Hush, Clare."
"But-"
"Shh." Outside it is still a golden afternoon. Inside we are cold, and we cling
together for warmth. Alba, in her bed, sleeps, and dreams of ice cream, dreams
the small contented dreams of three, while another Alba, somewhere in the
future, dreams of wrapping her arms around her father, and wakes up to find..
.what?
THE EPISODE OF THE MONROE STREET
PARKING GARAGE
Monday, January 7, 2006 (Clare is 34, Henry is 42)
Clare: We are sleeping deep early morning winter sleep when the phone rings. I
snap into wakefulness, my heart surging and realize Henry is there beside me.
He reaches over me and picks up the phone. I glance at the clock; it's 4:32 a.m.
'"Lo" says Henry. He listens for a long minute. I am wide awake now. Henry is
expressionless. "Okay. Stay there. We'll leave right now." He leans over and
replaces the receiver.
"Who was it?"
"Me. It was me. I'm down in the Monroe Street Parking Garage, no clothes,
fifteen degrees below zero. God, I hope the car starts."
We jump out of bed and throw on yesterday's clothes. Henry is booted and
has his coat on before I'm in my jeans and he runs out to start the car. I stuff
Henry's shirt and long underwear and jeans and socks and boots and extra coat
and mittens and a blanket into a shopping bag, wake Alba and stuff her into her
coat and boots, fly into my coat and out the door. I pull out of the garage before
the car is warmed up and it dies. I restart it, we sit for a minute and I try again. It
snowed six inches yesterday and Ainslie is rutted with ice. Alba is whining in her
car seat and Henry shushes her. When we get to Lawrence I speed up and in ten
minutes we are on the Drive; there's no one out at this hour. The Honda's heater
purrs. Over the lake the sky is becoming lighter. Everything is blue and orange,
brittle in the extreme cold. As we sail down Lake Shore Drive I have a strong deja
vu: the cold, the lake in dreamy silence, the sodium glow of the streetlights: I've
been here before, been here before. I'm deeply enmeshed in this moment and it
stretches on, carrying me away from the strangeness of the thing into awareness
of the duplicity of now; although we are speeding through this winter cityscape
time stands immobile. We pass Irving, Belmont, Fullerton, LaSalle: I exit at
Michigan. We fly down the deserted corridor of expensive shops, Oak Street,
Chicago, Randolph, Monroe, and now we are diving down into the subterranean
concrete world of the parking garage. I take the ticket the ghostly female machine
voice offers me. "Drive to the northwest end," says Henry. "The pay phone by
the security station." I follow his instructions. The deja vu is gone. I feel as though
I've been abandoned by a protective angel. The garage is virtually empty. I speed
across acres of yellow lines to the pay phone: the receiver dangles from its cord.
No Henry.
"Maybe you got back to the present?"
"But maybe not..." Henry is confused, and so am I. We get out of the car. It's
cold down here. My breath condenses and vanishes. I don't feel as though we
should leave, but I don't have any idea what might have happened. I walk over
to the security station and peer in the window. No guard. The video monitors
show empty concrete. "Shit. Where would I go? Let's drive around." We get back
into the car and cruise slowly through the vast pillared chambers of vacant space,
past signs directing us to Go Slow, More Parking, Remember Your Car's
Location. No Henry anywhere. We look at each oth