— The Time Traveler's Wife —
by Audrey Niffenegger

BIRTHDAY

Sunday, May 24, 1992 (Clare is 21, Henry is 28)

CLARE: It’s my twenty-first birthday. It’s a perfect summer evening. I’m at Henry’s apartment, in Henry’s bed, reading The Moonstone. Henry is in the tiny kitchenette making dinner. As I don his bathrobe and head for the bathroom I hear him swearing at the blender. I take my time, wash my hair, steam up the mirrors. I think about cutting my hair. How nice it would be to wash it, run a quick comb through it, and presto! all set, ready to rock and roll. I sigh. Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back. I know he loves it as part of me, but I also know that he would be deeply upset if I cut it off. And I would miss it, too…it’s just so much effort, sometimes I want to take it off like a wig and set it aside while I go out and play. I comb it carefully, working out the tangles. My hair is heavy when it’s wet. It pulls on my scalp. I prop the bathroom door open to dissipate the steam. Henry is singing something from Carmina Burana; it sounds weird and off key. I emerge from the bathroom and he is setting the table.

“Perfect timing; dinner is served.”

“Just a minute, let me get dressed.”

“You’re fine as you are. Really.” Henry walks around the table, opens the bathrobe, and runs his hands lightly over my breasts.

“Mmm. Dinner will get cold.”

“Dinner is cold. I mean, it’s supposed to be cold.”

“Oh… Well, let’s eat.” I’m suddenly exhausted, and cranky.

“Okay.” Henry releases me without comment. He returns to setting out silverware. I watch him for a minute, then pick up my clothes from their various places on the floor and put them on. I sit down at the table; Henry brings out two bowls of soup, pale and thick. “Vichyssoise. This is my grandmother’s recipe.” I take a sip. It’s perfect, buttery and cool. The next course is salmon, with long pieces of asparagus in an olive oil and rosemary marinade. I open my mouth to say something nice about the food and instead say, “Henry—do other people have sex as much as we do?”

Henry considers. “Most people…no, I imagine not. Only people who haven’t known each other very long and still can’t believe their luck, I would think. Is it too much?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I say this looking at my plate. I can’t believe I’m saying this; I spent my entire adolescence begging Henry to fuck me and now I’m telling him it’s too much. Henry sits very still.

“Clare, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize; I wasn’t thinking.”

I look up; Henry looks stricken. I burst out laughing. Henry smiles, a little guilty, but his eyes are twinkling.

“It’s just—you know, there are days when I can’t sit down.”

“Well…you just have to say. Say ‘Not tonight, dear, we’ve already done it twenty-three times today and I would rather read Bleak House.’”

“And you will meekly cease and desist?”

“I did, just then, didn’t I? That was pretty meek.”

“Yeah. But then I felt guilty.”

Henry laughs. “You can’t expect me to help you out there. It may be my only hope: day after day, week after week, I will languish, starving for a kiss, withering away for want of a blow job, and after a while you will look up from your book and realize that I’m actually going to die at your feet if you don’t fuck me immediately but I won’t say a word. Maybe a few little whimpering noises.”

“But—I don’t know, I mean, I’m exhausted, and you seem…fine. Am I abnormal, or something?”

Henry leans across the table and holds out his hands. I place mine in his.

“Clare.”

“Yes?”

“It may be indelicate to mention this, but if you will excuse me for saying so, your sex drive far outstrips that of almost all the women I’ve dated. Most women would have cried Uncle and turned on their answering machines months ago. But I should have thought…you always seemed into it. But if it’s too much, or you don’t feel like it, you have to say so, because otherwise I’ll be tiptoeing around, wondering if I’m burdening you with my hideous demands.”

“But how much sex is enough?”

“For me? Oh, God. My idea of the perfect life would be if we just stayed in bed all the time. We could make love more or less continuously, and only get up to bring in supplies, you know, fresh water and fruit to prevent scurvy, and make occasional trips to the bathroom to shave before diving back into bed. And once in a while we could change the sheets. And go to the movies to prevent bedsores. And running. I would still have to run every morning.” Running is a religion with Henry.

“How come running? Since you’d be getting so much exercise anyway?”

He is suddenly serious. “Because quite frequently my life depends on running faster than whoever’s chasing me.”

“Oh.” Now it’s my turn to be abashed, because I already knew that. “But—how do I put this?—you never seem to go anywhere—that is, since I met you here in the present you’ve hardly time traveled at all. Have you?”

“Well, at Christmas, you saw that. And around Thanksgiving. You were in Michigan, and I didn’t mention it because it was depressing.”

“You were watching the accident?”

Henry stares at me. “Actually, I was. How did you know?”

“A few years ago you showed up at Meadowlark on Christmas Eve and told me about it. You were really upset.”

“Yeah. I remember being unhappy just seeing that date on the List, thinking, gee, an extra Christmas to get through. Plus that was a bad one in regular time; I ended up with alcohol poisoning and had to have my stomach pumped. I hope I didn’t ruin yours.”

“No… I was happy to see you. And you were telling me something that was important, personal, even though you were careful not to tell any names or places. It was still your real life, and I was desperate for anything that helped me believe you were real and not some psychosis of mine. That’s also why I was always touching you.” I laugh. “I never realized how difficult I was making things for you. I mean, I did everything I could think of, and you were just cool as could be. You must have been dying.”

“For example?”

“What’s for dessert?”

Henry dutifully gets up and brings dessert. It’s mango ice cream with raspberries. It has one little candle sticking out of it at an angle; Henry sings Happy Birthday and I giggle because he’s so off-key; I make a wish and blow out the candle. The ice cream tastes superb; I am very cheerful, and I scan my memory for an especially egregious episode of Henry baiting.

“Okay. This was the worst. When I was sixteen, I was waiting for you late one night. It was about eleven o’clock, and there was a new moon, so it was pretty dark in the clearing. And I was kind of annoyed with you, because you were resolutely treating me like—a child, or a pal, or whatever—and I was just crazy to lose my virginity. I suddenly got the idea that I would hide your clothes…”

“Oh, no.”

“Yes. So I moved the clothes to a different spot…” I’m a little ashamed of this story, but it’s too late now.

“And?”

“And you appeared, and I basically teased you until you couldn’t take it.”

“And?”

“And you jumped me and pinned me, and for about thirty seconds we both thought ‘This is it.’ I mean, it wasn’t like you would’ve been raping me, because I was absolutely asking for it. But you got this look on your face, and you said ‘No,’ and you got up and walked away. You walked right through the Meadow into the trees and I didn’t see you again for three weeks.”

“Wow. That’s a better man than I.”

“I was so chastened by the whole thing that I made a huge effort to behave myself for the next two years.”

“Thank goodness. I can’t imagine having to exercise that much willpower on a regular basis.”

“Ah, but you will, that’s the amazing part. For a long time I actually thought you were not attracted to me. Of course, if we are going to spend our whole lives in bed, I suppose you can exercise a little restraint on your jaunts into my past.”

“Well, you know, I’m not kidding about wanting that much sex. I mean, I realize that it’s not practical. But I’ve been wanting to tell you: I feel so different. I just…feel so connected to you. And I think that it holds me here, in the present. Being physically connected the way that we are, it’s kind of rewiring my brain.” Henry is stroking my hand with his fingertips. He looks up. “I have something for you. Come and sit over here.”

I get up and follow him into the living room. He’s turned the bed into the couch and I sit down. The sun is setting and the room is washed in rose and tangerine light. Henry opens his desk, reaches into a pigeonhole, and produces a little satin bag. He sits slightly apart from me; our knees are touching. He must be able to hear my heart beating, I think. It’s come to this, I think. Henry takes my hands and looks at me gravely. I’ve waited for this so long and here it is and I’m frightened.

“Clare?”

“Yes?” My voice is small and scared.

“You know that I love you. Will you marry me?”

“Yes… Henry.” I have an overwhelming sense of déja vu. “But you know, really…1 already have.”

Sunday, May 31, 1992 (Clare is 21, Henry is 28)

CLARE: Henry and I are standing in the vestibule of the apartment building he grew up in. We’re a little late already, but we are just standing here; Henry is leaning against the mailboxes and breathing slowly with his eyes closed.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It can’t be any worse than you meeting Mama.”

“Your parents were very nice to me.”

“But Mama is…unpredictable.”

“So’s Dad.” Henry inserts his key into the front door lock and we walk up one flight of stairs and Henry knocks on the door of an apartment. Immediately it is opened by a tiny old Korean woman: Kimy. She’s wearing a blue silk dress and bright red lipstick, and her eyebrows have been drawn on a little lopsided. Her hair is salt-and-pepper gray; it’s braided and coiled into two buns at her ears. For some reason she reminds me of Ruth Gordon. She comes up to my shoulder, and she tilts her head back and says, “Ohhh, Henry, she’s bee-yoo-tiful!” I can feel myself turn red. Henry says, “Kimy, where are your manners?” and Kimy laughs and says, “Hello, Miss Clare Abshire!” and I say “Hello, Mrs. Kim.” We smile at each other, and she says, “Oh, you got to call me Kimy, everybody call me Kimy.” I nod and follow her into the living room and there’s Henry’s dad, sitting in an armchair.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. Henry’s dad is thin, tall, angular, and tired. He doesn’t look much like Henry. He has short gray hair, dark eyes, a long nose, and a thin mouth whose corners turn down a little. He’s sitting all bunched up in his chair, and I notice his hands, long elegant hands that lie in his lap like a cat napping.

Henry coughs and says, “Dad, this is Clare Abshire. Clare, this is my father, Richard DeTamble.”

Mr. DeTamble slowly extends one of his hands, and I step forward and shake it. It’s ice cold. “Hello, Mr. DeTamble. It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

“Is it? Henry must not have told you very much about me, then.” His voice is hoarse and amused. “I will have to capitalize on your optimism. Come and sit down by me. Kimy, may we have something to drink?”

“I was just going to ask everyone—Clare, what would you like? I made sangria, you like that? Henry, how ’bout you? Sangria? Okay. Richard, you like a beer?”

Everyone seems to pause for a moment. Then Mr. DeTamble says, “No, Kimy, I think I’ll just have tea, if you don’t mind making it.” Kimy smiles and disappears into the kitchen, and Mr. DeTamble turns to me and says, “I have a bit of a cold. I’ve taken some of that cold medicine, but I’m afraid it just makes me drowsy.”

Henry is sitting on the couch, watching us. All the furniture is white and looks as though it was bought at a JCPenney around 1945. The upholstery is protected with clear plastic, and there are vinyl runners over the white carpet. There’s a fireplace that looks as though it’s never used; above it is a beautiful ink painting of bamboo in wind.

“That’s a wonderful painting,” I say, because no one is saying anything.

Mr. DeTamble seems pleased. “Do you like it? Annette and I brought it back from Japan in 1962. We bought it in Kyoto, but the original is from China. We thought Kimy and Dong would like it. It is a seventeenth-century copy of a much older painting.”

“Tell Clare about the poem,” Henry says.

“Yes; the poem goes something like this: ‘Bamboo without mind, yet sends thoughts soaring among clouds. Standing on the lone mountain, quiet, dignified, it typifies the will of a gentleman.—Painted and written with a light heart, Wu Chen.’”

“That’s lovely,” I say. Kimy comes in with drinks on a tray, and Henry and I each take a glass of sangria while Mr. DeTamble carefully grasps his tea with both hands; the cup rattles against the saucer as he sets it on the table beside him. Kimy sits in a small armchair by the fireplace and sips her sangria. I taste mine and realize that it’s really strong. Henry glances at me and raises his eyebrows.

Kimy says, “Do you like gardens, Clare?”

“Um, yes,” I say. “My mother is a gardener.”

“You got to come out before dinner and see the backyard. All my peonies are blooming, and we got to show you the river.”

“That sounds nice.” We all troop out to the yard. I admire the Chicago River, placidly flowing at the foot of a precarious stairway; I admire the peonies. Kimy asks, “What kind of garden does your mom have? Does she grow roses?” Kimy has a tiny but well-ordered rose garden, all hybrid teas as far as I can tell.

“She does have a rose garden. Actually, Mama’s real passion is irises.”

“Oh. I got irises. They’re over there.” Kimy points to a clump of iris. “I need to divide them, you think your mom would like some?”

“I don’t know. I could ask.” Mama has more than two hundred varieties of iris. I catch Henry smiling behind Kimy’s back and I frown at him. “I could ask her if she wants to trade you some of hers; she has some that she bred herself, and she likes to give them to friends.”

“Your mother breeds iris?” Mr. DeTamble asks.

“Uh-huh. She also breeds tulips, but the irises are her favorites.”

“She is a professional gardener?”

“No,” I say. “Just an amateur. She has a gardener who does most of the work and there’s a bunch of people who come in and mow and weed and all that.”

“Must be a big yard,” Kimy says. She leads the way back into the apartment. In the kitchen a timer goes off. “Okay,” says Kimy. “It’s time to eat.” I ask if I can help but Kimy waves me into a chair. I sit across from Henry. His dad is on my right and Kimy’s empty chair is on my left. I notice that Mr. DeTamble is wearing a sweater, even though it’s pretty warm in here. Kimy has very pretty china; there are hummingbirds painted on it. Each of us has a sweating cold glass of water. Kimy pours us white wine. She hesitates at Henry’s dad’s glass but passes him over when he shakes his head. She brings out salads and sits down. Mr. DeTamble raises his water glass. “To the happy couple,” he says. “Happy couple,” says Kimy, and we all touch glasses and drink. Kimy says, “So, Clare, Henry say you are an artist. What kind of artist?”

“I make paper. Paper sculptures.”

“Ohh. You have to show me sometime ’cause I don’t know about that. Like origami?”

“Uh, no.”

Henry intercedes. “They’re like that German artist we saw down at the Art Institute, you know, Anselm Kiefer. Big dark scary paper sculptures.”

Kimy looks puzzled. “Why would a pretty girl like you make ugly things like that?”

Henry laughs. “It’s art, Kimy. Besides, they’re beautiful.”

“I use a lot of flowers,” I tell Kimy. “If you give me your dead roses I’ll put them in the piece I’m working on now.”

“Okay,” she says. “What is it?”

“A giant crow made out of roses, hair, and daylily fiber.”

“Huh. How come a crow? Crows are bad luck.”

“They are? I think they’re gorgeous.”

Mr. DeTamble raises one eyebrow and for just a second he does look like Henry; he says, “You have peculiar ideas about beauty.”

Kimy gets up and clears our salad plates and brings in a bowl of green beans and a steaming plate of “Roast Duck with Raspberry Pink Peppercorn Sauce.” It’s heavenly. I realize where Henry learned to cook. “What you think?” Kimy demands. “It’s delicious, Kimy,” says Mr. DeTamble, and I echo his praise. “Maybe cut down on the sugar?” Henry asks. “Yeah, I think so, too,” says Kimy. “It’s really tender though,” Henry says, and Kimy grins. I stretch out my hand to pick up my wine glass. Mr. DeTamble nods at me and says, “Annette’s ring looks well on you.”

“It’s very beautiful. Thank you for letting me have it.”

“There’s a lot of history in that ring, and the wedding band that goes with it. It was made in Paris in 1823 for my great-great-great-grandmother, whose name was Jeanne. It came to America in 1920 with my grandmother, Yvette, and it’s been sitting in a drawer since 1969, when Annette died. It’s good to see it back out in the light of day.”

I look at the ring, and think, Henry’s mom was wearing this when she died. I glance at Henry, who seems to be thinking the same thing, and at Mr. DeTamble, who is eating his duck. “Tell me about Annette,” I ask Mr. DeTamble.

He puts down his fork and leans his elbows on the table, puts his hands against his forehead. He peers at me from behind his hands. “Well, I’m sure Henry must have told you something.”

“Yes. A little. I grew up listening to her records; my parents are fans of hers.”

Mr. DeTamble smiles. “Ah. Well then, you know that Annette had the most marvelous voice…rich, and pure, such a voice, and such range…she could express her soul with that voice, whenever I listened to her I felt my life meant more than mere biology…she could really hear, she understood structure and she could analyze exactly what it was about a piece of music that had to be rendered just so…she was a very emotional person, Annette. She brought that out in other people. After she died I don’t think I ever really felt anything again.”

He pauses. I can’t look at Mr. DeTamble so I look at Henry. He’s staring at his father with an expression of such sadness that I look at my plate.

Mr. DeTamble says, “But you asked about Annette, not about me. She was kind, and she was a great artist; you don’t often find that those go together. Annette made people happy; she was happy herself. She enjoyed life. I only saw her cry twice: once when I gave her that ring and the other time when she had Henry.”

Another pause. Finally I say, “You were very lucky.”

He smiles, still shielding his face in his hands. “Well, we were and we weren’t. One minute we had everything we could dream of, and the next minute she was in pieces on the expressway.” Henry winces.

“But don’t you think,” I persist, “that it’s better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?”

Mr. DeTamble regards me. He takes his hands away from his face and stares. Then he says, “I’ve often wondered about that. Do you believe that?”

I think about my childhood, all the waiting, and wondering, and the joy of seeing Henry walking through the Meadow after not seeing him for weeks, months, and I think about what it was like not to see him for two years and then to find him standing in the Reading Room at the Newberry Library: the joy of being able to touch him, the luxury of knowing where he is, of knowing he loves me. “Yes,” I say. “I do.” I meet Henry’s eyes and smile.

Mr. DeTamble nods. “Henry has chosen well.” Kimy gets up to bring coffee and while she’s in the kitchen Mr. DeTamble continues, “He isn’t calibrated to bring peace to anyone’s life. In fact, he is in many ways the opposite of his mother: unreliable, volatile, and not even especially concerned with anyone but himself. Tell me, Clare: why on earth would a lovely girl like you want to marry Henry?”

Everything in the room seems to hold its breath. Henry stiffens but doesn’t say anything. I lean forward and smile at Mr. DeTamble and say, with enthusiasm, as though he has asked me what flavor of ice cream I like best: “Because he’s really, really good in bed.” In the kitchen there’s a howl of laughter. Mr. DeTamble glances at Henry, who raises his eyebrows and grins, and finally even Mr. DeTamble smiles, and says, “Touché, my dear.”