— The Time Traveler's Wife —
by Audrey Niffenegger

Sunday, June 13, 1976 (Henry is 30)

HENRY: I am lying on the floor in my old bedroom. I’m alone, and it’s a perfect summer night in an unknown year. I lie there swearing and feeling like an idiot for a while. Then I get up and go into the kitchen and help myself to several of Dad’s beers.

Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 38, and 30, Clare is 22) (2:37 p.m.)

CLARE: We are standing at the altar. Henry turns to me and says, “I, Henry, take you, Clare, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.” I think: remember this. I repeat the promise to him. Father Compton smiles at us and says, “…What God has joined, men must not divide.” I think: that’s not really the problem. Henry slides the thin silver ring over my finger into place above the engagement ring. I place his plain gold band on his finger, the only time he will ever wear it. The Mass proceeds, and I think this is all that matters: he’s here, I’m here, it doesn’t matter how, as long as he’s with me. Father Compton blesses us, and says, “The Mass is ended, go in peace.” We walk down the aisle, arm in arm, together.

(6:26 p.m.)

HENRY: The reception is just getting underway. The caterers are rushing back and forth with steel carts and covered trays. People are arriving and checking their coats. The rain has finally stopped. The South Haven Yacht Club is on North Beach, a 1920s building done up in paneling and leather, red carpet, and paintings of ships. It’s dark out now, but the lighthouse is blinking away out on the pier. I’m standing at a window, drinking Glenlivet, waiting for Clare, who has been whisked away by her mother for some reason I’m not privy to. I see Gomez and Ben’s reflections, heading toward me, and I turn.

Ben looks worried. “How are you?”

“I’m okay. Can you guys do me a favor?” They nod. “Gomez, go back to the church. I’m there, waiting in the vestibule. Pick me up, and bring me here. Smuggle me into the downstairs men’s John and leave me there. Ben, keep an eye on me,” (I point at my chest) “and when I tell you to, grab my tux and bring it to me in the men’s room. Okay?”

Gomez asks, “How much time do we have?”

“Not much.”

He nods, and walks away. Charisse approaches, and Gomez kisses her on the forehead and continues on. I turn to Ben, who looks tired. “How are you?” I ask him.

Ben sighs. “Kind of fatigued. Um, Henry?”

“Hmm?”

“When are you coming from?”

“2002.”

“Can you… Look, I know you don’t like this, but…”

“What? It’s okay, Ben. Whatever you want. It’s a special occasion.”

“Tell me: am I still alive?” Ben isn’t looking at me; he stares at the band, tuning up in the ballroom.

“Yes. You’re doing fine. I just saw you a few days ago; we played pool.”

Ben lets his breath out in a rush. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Tears are welling up in Ben’s eyes. I offer him my handkerchief, and he takes it, but then hands it back unused and goes off in search of the men’s room.

(7:04 p.m.)

CLARE: Everyone is sitting down to dinner and no one can find Henry. I ask Gomez if he’s seen him, and Gomez just gives me one of his Gomez looks and says that he’s sure Henry will be here any minute. Kimy comes up to us, looking very fragile and worried in her rose silk dress. “Where is Henry?” she asks me.

“I don’t know, Kimy.”

She pulls me toward her and whispers in my ear, “I saw his young friend Ben carrying a pile of clothing out of the Lounge.” Oh, no. If Henry has snapped back to his present it will be hard to explain. Maybe I could say that there was an emergency? Some kind of library emergency that required Henry’s immediate attention. But all his co-workers are here. Maybe I could say Henry has amnesia, has wandered away…

“There he is,” Kimy says. She squeezes my hand. Henry is standing in the doorway scanning the crowd, and sees us. He comes running over.

I kiss him. “Howdy, stranger.” He is back in the present, my younger Henry, the one who belongs here. Henry takes my arm, and Kimy’s arm, and leads us in to dinner. Kimy chuckles, and says something to Henry that I don’t catch. “What’d she say?” I ask as we sit down. “She asked me if we were planning a ménage à trois for the wedding night.” I turn lobster red. Kimy winks at me.

(7:16 p.m.)

HENRY: I’m hanging out in the club Library, eating canapés and reading a sumptuously bound and probably never opened first edition of Heart of Darkness. Out of the corner of my eye I see the manager of the club speeding toward me. I close the book and replace it on the shelf.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.” No shirt, no shoes, no service.

“Okay.” I stand up, and as the manager turns his back blood rushes to my head and I vanish. I come to on our kitchen floor on March 2, 2002, laughing. I’ve always wanted to do that.

(7:21 p.m.)

CLARE: Gomez is making a speech:

“Dear Clare, and Henry, family and friends, members of the jury…wait, scratch that. Dearly beloved, we have gathered here this evening on the shores of the Land of Singledom to wave our handkerchiefs at Clare and Henry as they embark together on their voyage on the Good Ship Matrimony. And while we are sad to watch them bid farewell to the joys of single life, we are confident that the much-ballyhooed state of Wedded Bliss will be a more than adequate new address. Some of us may even join them there shortly unless we can think of a way to avoid it. And so, let us have a toast: to Clare Abshire DeTamble, a beautiful artbabe who deserves every happiness that may befall her in her new world. And to Henry DeTamble, a damn fine fellow and a lucky son of a bitch: may the Sea of Life stretch before you like glass, and may you always have the wind at your backs. To the happy couple!” Gomez leans over and kisses me on the mouth, and I catch his eyes for a moment, and then the moment is gone.

(8:48 p.m.)

HENRY: We have cut and eaten the wedding cake. Clare has thrown her bouquet (Charisse caught it) and I have thrown Clare’s garter (Ben, of all people, caught that). The band is playing Take the A Train, and people are dancing. I have danced with Clare, and Kimy, Alicia, and Charisse; now I am dancing with Helen, who is pretty hot stuff, and Clare is dancing with Gomez. As I casually twirl Helen I see Celia Attley cut in on Gomez, who in turn cuts in on me. As he whirls Helen away I join the crowd by the bar and watch Clare dancing with Celia. Ben joins me. He’s drinking seltzer. I order vodka and tonic. Ben is wearing Clare’s garter around his arm like he’s in mourning.

“Who’s that?” he asks me.

“Celia Attley. Ingrid’s girlfriend.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yep.”

“What’s with that guy Gomez?”

“What do you mean?”

Ben stares at me and then turns his head. “Never mind.”

(10:23 p.m.)

CLARE: It’s over. We have kissed and hugged our way out of the club, have driven off in our shaving-cream-and-tin-can-covered car. I pull up in front of the Dew Drop Inn, a tiny, tacky motel on Silver Lake. Henry is asleep. I get out, check in, get the desk guy to help me walk Henry into our room and dump him on the bed. The guy brings in the luggage, eyeballs my wedding dress and Henry’s inert state, and smirks at me. I tip him. He leaves. I remove Henry’s shoes, loosen his tie. I take off my dress and lay it over the armchair.

I’m standing in the bathroom, shivering in my slip and brushing my teeth. In the mirror I can see Henry lying on the bed. He’s snoring. I spit out the toothpaste and rinse my mouth. Suddenly it comes over me: happiness. And the realization: we’re married. Well, I’m married, anyway.

When I turn out the light I kiss Henry goodnight. He smells of alcohol sweat and Helen’s perfume. Goodnight, goodnight, don’t let the bedbugs bite. And I fall asleep, dreamless and happy.

Monday, October 25, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare is 22)

HENRY: The Monday after the wedding Clare and I are at Chicago City Hall, being married by a judge. Gomez and Charisse are the witnesses. Afterward we all go out for dinner at Charlie Trotter’s, a restaurant so expensive that the decor resembles the first-class section of an airplane or a minimalist sculpture. Fortunately, although the food looks like art, it tastes great. Charisse takes photographs of each course as it appears in front of us.

“How’s it feel, being married?” asks Charisse.

“I feel very married,” Clare says.

“You could keep going,” says Gomez. “Try out all the different ceremonies, Buddhist, nudist…”

“I wonder if I’m a bigamist?” Clare is eating something pistachio-colored that has several large shrimp poised over it as though they are nearsighted old men reading a newspaper.

“I think you’re allowed to marry the same person as many times as you want,” Charisse says.

“Are you the same person?” Gomez asks me. The thing I’m eating is covered with thin slices of raw tuna that melt on my tongue. I take a moment to appreciate them before I answer:

“Yes, but more so.”

Gomez is disgruntled and mutters something about Zen koans, but Clare smiles at me and raises her glass. I tap hers with mine: a delicate crystal note rings out and falls away in the hum of the restaurant.

And so, we are married.

 

 

II

A DROP OF BLOOD

IN A BOWL OF MILK

 

“What is it? My dear?”

“Ah, how can we bear it?”

“Bear what?”

“This. For so short a time. How can we sleep this time away?”

“We can be quiet together, and pretend—since it is only the beginning—that we have all the time in the world.”

“And every day we shall have less. And then none.”

“Would you rather, therefore, have had nothing at all?”

“No. This is where I have always been coming to. Since my time began. And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run. But now, my love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere.”

 

 

—A.S. Byatt, Possession

 

 

MARRIED LIFE

 

March, 1994 (Clare is 22, Henry is 30)

CLARE: And so we are married.

At first we live in a two-bedroom apartment in a two-flat in Ravenswood. It’s sunny, with butter-colored hardwood floors and a kitchen full of antique cabinets and antiquated appliances. We buy things, spend Sunday afternoons in Crate & Barrel exchanging wedding presents, order a sofa that can’t fit through the doors of the apartment and has to be sent back. The apartment is a laboratory in which we conduct experiments, perform research on each other. We discover that Henry hates it when I absentmindedly click my spoon against my teeth while reading the paper at breakfast. We agree that it is okay for me to listen to Joni Mitchell and it is okay for Henry to listen to the Shags as long as the other person isn’t around. We figure out that Henry should do all the cooking and I should be in charge of laundry and neither of us is willing to vacuum so we hire a cleaning service.

We fall into a routine. Henry works Tuesdays through Saturdays at the Newberry. He gets up at 7:30 and starts the coffee, then throws on his running clothes and goes for a run. When he gets back he showers and dresses, and I stagger out of bed and chat with him while he fixes breakfast. After we eat, he brushes his teeth and speeds out the door to catch the El, and I go back to bed and doze for an hour or so.

When I get up again the apartment is quiet. I take a bath and comb my hair and put on my work clothes. I pour myself another cup of coffee, and I walk into the back bedroom which is my studio, and I close the door.

I am having a hard time, in my tiny back bedroom studio, in the beginning of my married life. The space that I can call mine, that isn’t full of Henry, is so small that my ideas have become small. I am like a caterpillar in a cocoon of paper; all around me are sketches for sculptures, small drawings that seem like moths fluttering against the windows, beating their wings to escape from this tiny space. I make maquettes, tiny sculptures that are rehearsals for huge sculptures. Every day the ideas come more reluctantly, as though they know I will starve them and stunt their growth. At night I dream about color, about submerging my arms into vats of paper fiber. I dream about miniature gardens I can’t set foot in because I am a giantess.

The compelling thing about making art—or making anything, I suppose—is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances. Circe, Nimbue, Artemis, Athena, all the old sorceresses: they must have known the feeling as they transformed mere men into fabulous creatures, stole the secrets of the magicians, disposed armies: ah, look, there it is, the new thing. Call it a swine, a war, a laurel tree. Call it art. The magic I can make is small magic now, deferred magic. Every day I work, but nothing ever materializes. I feel like Penelope, weaving and unweaving.

And what of Henry, my Odysseus? Henry is an artist of another sort, a disappearing artist. Our life together in this too-small apartment is punctuated by Henry’s small absences. Sometimes he disappears unobtrusively; I might be walking from the kitchen into the hall and find a pile of clothing on the floor. I might get out of bed in the morning and find the shower running and no one in it. Sometimes it’s frightening. I am working in my studio one afternoon when I hear someone moaning outside my door; when I open it I find Henry on his hands and knees, naked, in the hall, bleeding heavily from his head. He opens his eyes, sees me, and vanishes. Sometimes I wake up in the night and Henry is gone. In the morning he will tell me where he’s been, the way other husbands might tell their wives a dream they had: “I was in the Selzer Library in the dark, in 1989.” Or: “I was chased by a German sheperd across somebody’s backyard and had to climb a tree.” Or: “I was standing in the rain near my parents’ apartment, listening to my mother sing.” I am waiting for Henry to tell me that he has seen me as a child, but so far this hasn’t happened. When I was a child I looked forward to seeing Henry. Every visit was an event. Now every absence is a nonevent, a subtraction, an adventure I will hear about when my adventurer materializes at my feet, bleeding or whistling, smiling or shaking. Now I am afraid when he is gone.

HENRY: When you live with a woman you learn something every day. So far I have learned that long hair will clog up the shower drain before you can say “Liquid-Plumr”; that it is not advisable to clip something out of the newspaper before your wife has read it, even if the newspaper in question is a week old; that I am the only person in our two-person household who can eat the same thing for dinner three nights in a row without pouting; and that headphones were invented to preserve spouses from each other’s musical excesses. (How can Clare listen to Cheap Trick? Why does she like The Eagles? I’ll never know, because she gets all defensive when I ask her. How can it be that the woman I love doesn’t want to listen to Musique du Garrot et de la Farraille?) The hardest lesson is Clare’s solitude. Sometimes I come home and Clare seems kind of irritated; I’ve interrupted some train of thought, broken into the dreamy silence of her day. Sometimes I see an expression on Clare’s face that is like a closed door. She has gone inside the room of her mind and is sitting there knitting or something. I’ve discovered that Clare likes to be alone. But when I return from time traveling she is always relieved to see me.

When the woman you live with is an artist, every day is a surprise. Clare has turned the second bedroom into a wonder cabinet, full of small sculptures and drawings pinned up on every inch of wall space. There are coils of wire and rolls of paper tucked into shelves and drawers. The sculptures remind me of kites, or model airplanes. I say this to Clare one evening, standing in the doorway of her studio in my suit and tie, home from work, about to begin making dinner, and she throws one at me; it flies surprisingly well, and soon we are standing at opposite ends of the hall, tossing tiny sculptures at each other, testing their aerodynamics. The next day I come home to find that Clare has created a flock of paper and wire birds, which are hanging from the ceiling in the living room. A week later our bedroom windows are full of abstract blue translucent shapes that the sun throws across the room onto the walls, making a sky for the bird shapes Clare has painted there. It’s beautiful.

The next evening I’m standing in the doorway of Clare’s studio, watching her finish drawing a thicket of black lines around a little red bird. Suddenly I see Clare, in her small room, closed in by all her stuff, and I realize that she’s trying to say something, and I know what I have to do.