AFTER THE END Saturday, October 27, 1984 (Clare is 13, Henry is 43)

AFTER THE END


Saturday, October 27, 1984 (Clare is 13, Henry is 43)

CLARE: I wake up suddenly. There was a noise: someone called my name. It sounded
like Henry. I sit up in bed, listening. I hear the wind, and crows calling. But what if it
was Henry? I jump out of bed and I run, with no shoes I run downstairs, out the back
door, into the Meadow. It’s cold, the wind cuts right through my nightgown. Where is
he? I stop and look and there, by the orchard, there’s Daddy and Mark, in their bright
orange hunting clothes, and there’s a man with them, they are all standing and
looking at something but then they hear me and they turn and I see that the man is
Henry. What is Henry doing with Daddy and Mark? I run to them, my feet cut by the
dead grasses, and Daddy walks to meet me. “Sweetheart,” he says, “what are you
doing out here so early?”


“I heard my name” I say. He smiles at me. Silly girl, his smile says, and I look at
Henry, to see if he will explain. Why did you call me, Henry? but he shakes his head
and puts his finger to his lips, Shhh, don’t tell, Clare. He walks into the orchard and I
want to see what they were looking at but there’s nothing there and Daddy says, “Go
back to bed, Clare, it was just a dream.” He puts his arm around me and begins to
walk back toward the house with me and I look back at Henry and he waves, he’s
smiling, It’s okay, Clare, I’ll explain later (although knowing Henry he probably
won’t explain, he’ll make me figure it out or it will explain itself one of these days). I
wave back at him, and then I check to see if Mark saw that but Mark has his back to
us, he’s irritated and is waiting for me to go away so he and Daddy can go back to
hunting, but what is Henry doing here, what did they say to each other? I look back
again but I don’t see Henry and Daddy says, “Go on, now, Clare, go back to bed,”
and he kisses my forehead. He seems upset and so I run, run back to the house, and
then softly up the stairs and then I am sitting on my bed, shivering, and I still don’t
know what just happened, but I know it was bad, it was very, very bad.

Monday, February 2, 1987 (Clare is 15, Henry is 38)

CLARE: When I get home from school Henry is waiting for me in the Reading Room.
I have fixed a little room for him next to the furnace room; it’s on the opposite side
from where all the bicycles are. I have allowed it to be known in my household that I
like to spend time in the basement reading, and I do in fact spend a lot of time in here,
so that it doesn’t seem unusual. Henry has a chair wedged under the doorknob. I
knock four knocks and he lets me in. He has made a sort of nest out of pillows and
chair cushions and blankets, he has been reading old magazines under my desk lamp.
He is wearing Dad’s old jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, and he looks tired and
unshaven. I left the back door unlocked for him this morning and here he is.

I set the tray of food I have brought on the floor. “I could bring down some
books.”

“Actually, these are great.” He’s been reading Mad magazines from the ‘60s.
“And this is indispensable for time travelers who need to know all sorts of factoids at
a moment’s notice,” he says, holding up the 1968 World Almanac.

I sit down next to him on the blankets, and look over at him to see if he’s going to
make me move. I can see he’s thinking about it, so I hold up my hands for him to see
and then I sit on them. He smiles. “Make yourself at home,” he says.

“When are you coming from?”

“2001. October”


“You look tired.” I can see that he’s debating about telling me why he’s tired, and
decides against it. “What are we up to in 2001?”

“Big things. Exhausting things.” Henry starts to eat the roast beef sandwich I have
brought him. “Hey, this is good.”

“Nell made it.”

He laughs. “I’ll never understand why it is that you can build huge sculptures that
withstand gale force winds, deal with dye recipes, cook kozo, and all that, and you
can’t do anything whatsoever with food. It’s amazing.”

“It’s a mental block. A phobia.”

“It’s weird.”

“I walk into the kitchen and I hear this little voice saying, ‘Go away.’ So I do.”

“Are you eating enough? You look thin.”

I feel fat. “I’m eating.” I have a dismal thought. “Am I very fat in 2001? Maybe
that’s why you think I’m too thin.”

Henry smiles at some joke I don’t get. “Well, you’re kind of plump at the moment,

in my present, but it will pass.”

“Ugh.”

“Plump is good. It will look very good on you.”

“No thanks.” Henry looks at me, worrying. “You know, I’m not anorexic or

anything. I mean, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Well, it’s just that your mom was always bugging you about it.”

“‘Was’?”

“Is.”

“Why did you say was?”

“No reason. Lucille is fine. Don’t worry.” He’s lying. My stomach tightens and I

wrap my arms around my knees and put my head down.

HENRY: I cannot believe that I have made a slip of the tongue of this magnitude. I
stroke Clare’s hair, and I wish fervently that I could go back to my present for just a
minute, long enough to consult Clare, to find out what I should say to her, at fifteen,
about her mother’s death. It’s because I’m not getting any sleep. If I was getting some
sleep I would have been thinking faster, or at least covering better for my lapse. But
Clare, who is the most truthful person I know, is acutely sensitive to even small lies,
and now the only alternatives are to refuse to say anything, which will make her
frantic, or to lie, which she won’t accept, or to tell the truth, which will upset her and
do strange things to her relationship with her mother. Clare looks at me. “Tell me,”
she says.


CLARE: Henry looks miserable. “I can’t, Clare.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not good to know things ahead. It screws up your life.”

“Yes. But you can’t half tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

I’m really beginning to panic. “She killed herself.” I am flooded with certainty. It

is the thing I have always feared most.

“ No. No. Absolutely not.”

I stare at him. Henry just looks very unhappy. I cannot tell if he is telling the truth.

If I could only read his mind, how much easier life would be. Mama. Oh, Mama.

HENRY: This is dreadful. I can’t leave Clare with this. “Ovarian cancer,” I say, very
quietly. “Thank God,” she says, and begins to cry.

Friday, June 5, 1987 (Clare is 16, Henry is 32)

CLARE: I’ve been waiting all day for Henry. I’m so excited. I got my driver’s license
yesterday, and Daddy said I could take the Fiat to Ruth’s party tonight. Mama doesn’t
like this at all, but since Daddy has already said yes she can’t do much about it. I can
hear them arguing in the library after dinner.

“You could have asked me—”

“It seemed harmless, Lucy....”

I take my book and walk out to the Meadow. I lie down in the grass. The sun is
beginning to set. It’s cool out here, and the grass is full of little white moths. The sky
is pink and orange over the trees in the west, and an arc of deepening blue over me. I
am thinking about going back to the house and getting a sweater when I hear
someone walking through the grass. Sure enough, it’s Henry. He enters the clearing
and sits down on the rock. I spy on him from the grass. He looks fairly young, early
thirties maybe. He’s wearing the plain black T-shirt and jeans and hi-tops. He’s just
sitting quietly, waiting. I can’t wait a minute longer, myself, and I jump up and startle
him.

“Jesus, Clare, don’t give the geezer a heart attack.”

“You’re not a geezer.”

Henry smiles. He’s funny about being old.

“Kiss,” I demand, and he kisses me.


“What was that for?” he asks.
“I got my driver’s license!”
Henry looks alarmed. “Oh, no. I mean, congratulations.”
I smile at him; nothing he says can ruin my mood. “You’re just jealous.”
“I am, in fact. I love to drive, and I never do.”
“How come?”
“Too dangerous.”
“Chicken.”
“I mean for other people. Imagine what would happen if I was driving and I


disappeared? The car would still be moving and kaboom! lots of dead people and
blood. Not pretty.”

I sit down on the rock next to Henry. He moves away. I ignore this. “I’m going to
a party at Ruth’s tonight. Want to come?”

He raises one eyebrow. This usually means he’s going to quote from a book I’ve
never heard of or lecture me about something. Instead he only says, “But Clare, that
would involve meeting a whole bunch of your friends.”

“Why not? I’m tired of being all secretive about this.”

“Let’s see. You’re sixteen. I’m thirty-two right now, only twice your age. I’m sure
no one would even notice, and your parents would never hear about it.”

I sigh. “Well, I have to go to this party. Come with and sit in the car and I won’t
stay in very long and then we can go somewhere.”

HENRY: We park about a block away from Ruth’s house. I can hear the music all the
way down here; it’s Talking Heads’ Once In A Lifetime. I actually kind of wish I
could go with Clare, but it would be unwise. She hops out of the car and says, “Stay!”
as though I am a large, disobedient dog, and totters off in her heels and short skirt
toward Ruth’s. I slump down and wait.

CLARE: AS soon as I walk in the door I know this party is a mistake. Ruth’s parents
are in San Francisco for a week, so at least she will have some time to repair, clean,
and explain, but I’m glad it’s not my house all the same. Ruth’s older brother, Jake,
has also invited his friends, and altogether there are about a hundred people here and
all of them are drunk. There are more guys than girls and I wish I had worn pants and
flats, but it’s too late to do anything about it. As I walk into the kitchen to get a drink
someone behind me says, “Check out Miss Look-But-Don’t-Touch!” and makes an
obscene slurping sound. I spin around and see the guy we call Lizardface (because of
his acne) leering at me. “Nice dress, Clare.”


“Thanks, but it’s not for your benefit, Lizardface.”

He follows me into the kitchen. “Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say, young
lady. After all, I’m just trying to express my appreciation of your extremely comely
attire, and all you can do is insult me...”He won’t shut up. I finally escape by

grabbing Helen and using her as a human shield to get out of the kitchen.

“This sucks,” says Helen. “Where’s Ruth?”

Ruth is hiding upstairs in her bedroom with Laura. They are smoking a joint in the

dark and watching out the window as a bunch of Jake’s friends skinny dip in the pool.
Soon we are all sitting in the window seat gawking.

“Mmm,” says Helen. “I’d like some of that.”

“Which one?” Ruth asks.

“The guy on the diving board.”

“Ooh.”

“Look at Ron,” says Laura.

“That’s Ron?” Ruth giggles.

“Wow. Well, I guess anyone would look better without the Metallica T-shirt and
the skanky leather vest,” Helen says. “Hey, Clare, you’re awfully quiet.”

“Um? Yeah, I guess,” I say weakly.

“Look at you,” says Helen. “You are, like, cross-eyed with lust. I am ashamed of
you. How could you let yourself get into such a state?” She laughs. “Seriously, Clare,
why don’t you just get it over with?”

“I can’t,” I say miserably.

“Sure you can. Just walk downstairs and yell ‘Fuck me!’ and about fifty guys
would be yelling ‘Me! Me!’”

“You don’t understand. I don’t want—it’s not that—”

“She wants somebody in particular,” Ruth says, without taking her eyes off the

pool.

“Who?” Helen asks.

I shrug my shoulders.

“Come on, Clare, spit it out.”

“Leave her alone,” Laura says. “If Clare doesn’t want to say, she doesn’t have to.”

I am sitting next to Laura, and I lean my head on her shoulder.

Helen bounces up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you going?”

“I brought some champagne and pear juice to make Bellinis, but I left it in the
car.” She dashes out the door. A tall guy with shoulder-length hair does a backwards
somersault off the diving board.


“Ooh la la,” say Ruth and Laura in unison.

HENRY: A long time has passed, maybe an hour or so. I eat half the potato chips and
drink the warm Coke Clare has brought along. I nap a bit. She’s gone for so long that
I’m starting to consider going for a walk. Also I need to take a leak.

I hear heels tapping toward me. I look out the window, but it’s not Clare, it’s this
bombshell blond girl in a tight red dress. I blink, and realize that this is Clare’s friend
Helen Powell. Uh oh.

She clicks over to my side of the car, leans over and peers at me. I can see right
down her dress to Tokyo. I feel slightly woozy,

“Hi, Clare’s boyfriend. I’m Helen.”

“Wrong number, Helen. But pleased to meet you.” Her breath is highly alcoholic.

“Aren’t you going to get out of the car and be properly introduced?”

“Oh, I’m pretty comfortable where I am, thanks.”

“Well, I’ll just join you in there, then.” She moves uncertainly around the front of
the car, opens the door, and plops herself into the driver’s seat.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for the longest time,” Helen confides.

“You have? Why?” I desperately wish Clare would come and rescue me, but then
that would give the game away, wouldn’t it?

Helen leans toward me and says, sotto voce, “I deduced your existence. My vast
powers of observation have led me to the conclusion that whatever remains when you
have eliminated the impossible, is the truth, no matter how impossible. Hence,” Helen
pauses to burp. “How unladylike. Excuse me. Hence, I have concluded that Clare
must have a boyfriend, because otherwise, she would not be refusing to fuck all these
very nice boys who are very much distressed about it. And here you are. Ta da!”

I’ve always liked Helen, and I am sad to have to mislead her. This does explain
something she said to me at our wedding, though. I love it when little puzzle pieces
drop into place like this.

“That’s very compelling reasoning, Helen, but I’m not Clare’s boyfriend.”

“Then why are you sitting in her car?”

I have a brainstorm. Clare is going to kill me for this. “I’m a friend of Clare’s
parents. They were worried about her taking the car to a party where there might be
alcohol, so they asked me to go along and play chauffeur in case she got too pickled
to drive.”

Helen pouts. “That’s extremely not necessary. Our little Clare hardly drinks
enough to fill a tiny, tiny thimble—”

“I never said she did. Her parents were just being paranoid.”


High heels click down the sidewalk. This time it is Clare. She freezes when she
sees that I have company.

Helen jumps out of the car and says, “Clare! This naughty man says he is not your
boyfriend.”

Clare and I exchange glances. “Well, he’s not,” says Clare curtly.

“Oh,” says Helen. “Are you leaving?”

“It’s almost midnight. I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.” Clare walks around the
car and opens her door. “Come on, Henry, let’s go.” She starts the car and flips on the
lights.

Helen stands stock still in the headlights. Then she walks over to my side of the
car. “Not her boyfriend, huh, Henry? You had me going there for a minute, yes you
did. Bye bye, Clare.” She laughs, and Clare pulls out of the parking space awkwardly
and drives away. Ruth lives on Conger. As we turn onto Broadway, I see that all the
street lights are off. Broadway is a two-lane highway. It’s ruler-straight, but without
the streetlights it’s like driving into an inkwell.

“Better turn on your brights, Clare,” I say. She reaches forward and turns the
headlights off completely.

“Clare—!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shut up. All I can see are the illuminated numbers of
the clock radio. It’s 11:36.I hear the air rushing past the car, the engine of the car; I
feel the wheels passing over the asphalt, but somehow we seem to be motionless, and
the world moves around us at forty-five miles per hour. I close my eyes. It makes no
difference. I open them. My heart is pounding.

Headlights appear in the distance. Clare turns her lights on and we are rushing
along again, perfectly aligned between the yellow stripes in the middle of the road
and the edge of the highway. It’s 11:38.

Clare is expressionless in the reflected dashboard lights. “Why did you do that?” I
ask her, my voice shaking.

“Why not?” Clare’s voice is calm as a summer pond.

“Because we could have both died in a fiery wreck?”

Clare slows and turns onto Blue Star Highway. “But that’s not what happens” she
says. “I grow up and meet you and we get married and here you are.”

“For all you know you crashed the car just then and we both spent a year in
traction.”

“But then you would have warned me not to do it,” says Clare.

“I tried, but you yelled at me—”

“I mean, an older you would have told a younger me not to crash the car.”

“Well, by then it would have already happened.”


We have reached Meagram Lane, and Clare turns onto it. This is the private road
that leads to her house. “Pull over, Clare, okay? Please?” Clare drives onto the grass,
stops, cuts the engine and the lights. It’s completely dark again, and I can hear a
million cicadas singing. I reach over and pull Clare close to me, put my arm around
her. She is tense and unpliant.

“Promise me something.”

“What?” Clare asks.

“Promise you won’t do anything like that again. I mean not just with the car, but
anything dangerous. Because you don’t know. The future is weird, and you can’t go
around behaving like you’re invincible—”

“But if you’ve seen me in the future—”

“Trust me. Just trust me.”

Clare laughs. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I dunno. Because I love you?”

Clare turns her head so quickly that she hits me in the jaw,

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” I can barely see the outline of her profile. “You love me?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not my boyfriend.”

Oh. That’s what’s bugging her. “Well, technically speaking, I’m your husband.
Since you haven’t actually gotten married yet, I suppose we would have to say that
you are my girlfriend.”

Clare puts her hand someplace it probably shouldn’t be. “I’d rather be your
mistress.”

“You’re sixteen, Clare.” I gently remove her hand, and stroke her face.

“That’s old enough. Ugh, your hands are all wet.” Clare turns on the overhead
light and I am startled to see that her face and dress are streaked with blood. I look at
my palms and they are sticky and red. “Henry! What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” I lick my right palm and four deep crescent-shaped cuts appear in
a row. I laugh. “It’s from my fingernails. When you were driving without the
headlights.”

Clare snaps off the overhead light and we are sitting in the dark again. The cicadas
sing with all their might. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah, you did. But usually I feel safe when you’re driving. It’s just—”

“What?”


“I was in a car accident when I was a kid, and I don’t like to ride in cars.”
“Oh—I’m sorry.”
“‘S okay. Hey, what time is it?”
“Oh my God.” Clare flips the light on. 12:12. “I’m late. And how can I walk in all


bloody like this?” She looks so distraught that I want to laugh.

“Here.” I rub my left palm across her upper lip and under her nose. “You have a
nosebleed.”

“Okay.” She starts the car, flips on the headlights, and eases back onto the road.

“Etta’s going to freak when she sees me.”

“Etta? What about your parents?”

“Mama’s probably asleep by now, and it’s Daddy’s poker night.” Clare opens the
gate and we pass through.

“If my kid was out with the car the day after she got her license I would be sitting
next to the front door with a stopwatch.” Clare stops the car out of sight of the house.

“Do we have kids?”

“Sorry, that’s classified.”

“I’m gonna apply for that one under the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Be my guest.” I kiss her carefully, so as not to disturb the faux nosebleed. “Let

me know what you find out.” I open the car door. “Good luck with Etta.”

“Good night.”

“Night.” I get out and close the door as quietly as possible. The car glides down
the drive, around the bend and into the night. I walk after it toward a bed in the
Meadow under the stars.

Sunday, September 27, 1987 (Henry is 32, Clare is 16)

HENRY: I materialize in the Meadow, about fifteen feet west of the clearing. I feel
dreadful, dizzy and nauseated, so I sit for a few minutes to pull myself together. It’s
chilly and gray, and I am submerged in the tall brown grass, which cuts into my skin.
After a while I feel a little better, and it’s quiet, so I stand up and walk into the
clearing.

Clare is sitting on the ground, next to the rock, leaning against it. She doesn’t say
anything, just looks at me with what I can only describe as anger. Uh oh, I think.
What have I done? She’s in her Grace Kelly phase; she’s wearing her blue wool coat
and a red skirt. I’m shivering, and I hunt for the clothes box. I find it, and don black
jeans, a black sweater, black wool socks, a black overcoat, black boots, and black


leather gloves, I look like I’m about to star in a Wim Wenders film. I sit down next to
Clare.

“Hi, Clare. Are you okay?”

“Hi, Henry. Here.” She hands me a Thermos and two sandwiches.

“Thanks. I feel kind of sick, so I’ll wait a little.” I set the food on the rock. The
Thermos contains coffee; I inhale deeply. Just the smell makes me feel better. “Are
you all right?” She’s not looking at me. As I scrutinize Clare, I realize that she’s been
crying.

“Henry. Would you beat someone up for me?”

“What?”

“I want to hurt someone, and I’m not big enough, and I don’t know how to fight.
Will you do it for me?”

“Whoa. What are you talking about? Who? Why?”

Clare stares at her lap. “I don’t want to talk about it. Couldn’t you just take my
word that he totally deserves it?”

I think I know what’s going on; I think I’ve heard this story before. I sigh, and
move closer to Clare, and put my arm around her. She leans her head on my shoulder.

“This is about some guy you went on a date with, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And he was a jerk, and now you want me to pulverize him?”

“Yeah.”

“Clare, lots of guys are jerks. I used to be a jerk—”

Clare laughs. “I bet you weren’t as big of a jerk as Jason Everleigh.”

“He’s a football player or something, right?”

“Yes.”

“Clare, what makes you think I can take on some huge jock half my age? Why
were you even going out with someone like that?”

She shrugs. “At school, everybody’s been bugging me ‘cause I never date anyone.
Ruth and Meg and Nancy—I mean, there are all these rumors going around that I’m a
lesbian. Even Mama is asking me why I don’t go out with boys. Guys ask me out, and
I turn them down. And then Beatrice Dilford, who is a dyke, asked me if I was, and I
told her no, and she said that she wasn’t surprised, but that’s what everybody was
saying, so then I thought, well, maybe I’d better go out with a few guys. So the next
one who asked was Jason. He’s, like, this jock, and he’s really good looking, and I
knew that if I went out with him everyone would know, and I thought maybe they
would shut up.”

“So this was the first time you went out on a date?”


“Yeah. We went to this Italian restaurant and Laura and Mike were there, and a
bunch of people from Theater class, and I offered to go Dutch but he said no, he
never did that, and it was okay, I mean, we talked about school and stuff, football.
Then we went to see Friday the 13th, Part VII, which was really stupid, in case you
were thinking of seeing it,”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Oh. Why? It doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”

“Same reason you did; my date wanted to see it.”

“Who was your date?”

“A woman named Alex.”

“What was she like?”

“A bank teller with big tits who liked to be spanked.” The second this pops out of

my mouth I realize that I am talking to Clare the teenager, not Clare my wife, and I
mentally smack myself in the head.

“Spanked?” Clare looks at me, smiling, her eyebrows halfway to her hairline.

“Never mind. So you went to a movie, and...?”

“Oh. Well, then he wanted to go to Traver’s.”

“What is Traver’s?”

“It’s a farm on the north side.” Clare’s voice drops, I can hardly hear her. “It’s
where people go to...make out.” I don’t say anything. “So I told him I was tired, and
wanted to go home, and then he got kind of, urn, mad.” Clare stops talking; for a
while we sit, listening to birds, airplanes, wind. Suddenly Clare says, “He was really
mad.”

“What happened then?”

“He wouldn’t take me home. I wasn’t sure where we were; somewhere out on
Route 12, he was just driving around, down little lanes, God, I don’t know. He drove
down this dirt road, and there was this little cottage. There was a lake nearby, I could
hear it. And he had the key to this place.”

I’m getting nervous. Clare never told me any of this; just that she once went on a
really horrible date with some guy named Jason, who was a football player. Clare has

fallen silent again.

“Clare. Did he rape you?”

“No. He said I wasn’t.. .good enough. He said—no, he didn’t rape me. He just—
hurt me. He made me..” She can’t say it. I wait. Clare unbuttons her coat, and
removes it. She peels her shirt off, and I see that her back is covered with bruises.
They are dark and purple against her white skin. Clare turns and there is a cigarette
burn on her right breast, blistered and ugly. I asked her once what that scar was, and


she wouldn’t say. I am going to kill this guy. I am going to cripple him. Clare sits
before me, shoulders back, gooseflesh, waiting. I hand her her shirt, and she puts it on.

“All right,” I tell her quietly. “Where do I find this guy?”

“I’ll drive you,” she says.

Clare picks me up in the Fiat at the end of the driveway, out of sight of the house.
She’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s a dim afternoon, and lipstick, and her hair
is coiled at the back of her head. She looks a lot older than sixteen. She looks like she
just walked out of Rear Window, though the resemblance would be more perfect if
she was blond. We speed through the fall trees, but I don’t think either of us notices
much color. A tape loop of what happened to Clare in that little cottage has begun to
play repeatedly in my head.

“How big is he?”

Clare considers. “A couple inches taller than you. A lot heavier. Fifty pounds?”

“Christ.”

“I brought this.” Clare digs in her purse and produces a handgun.

“Clare!”

“It’s Daddy’s.”

I think fast. “Clare, that’s a bad idea. I mean, I’m mad enough to actually use it,
and that would be stupid. Ah, wait.” I take it from her, open the chamber, and remove
the bullets and put them in her purse. “There. That’s better. Brilliant idea, Clare.”
Clare looks at me, questioning. I stick the gun in my overcoat pocket. “Do you want
me to do this anonymously, or do you want him to know it’s from you?”

“I want to be there.”

“Oh.”

She pulls into a private lane and stops. “I want to take him somewhere and I want
you to hurt him very badly and I want to watch. I want him scared shitless.”

I sigh. “Clare, I don’t usually do this kind of thing. I usually fight in self-defense,
for one thing.”

“Please.” It comes out of her mouth absolutely flat.

“Of course.” We continue down the drive, and stop in front of a large, new faux
Colonial house. There are no cars visible. Van Halen emanates from an open second-
floor window. We walk to the front door and I stand to the side while Clare rings the
bell. After a moment the music abruptly stops and heavy footsteps clump down stairs.
The door opens, and after a pause a deep voice says, “What? You come back for
more?” That’s all I need to hear. I draw the gun and step to Clare’s side. I point it at
the guy’s chest.


“Hi, Jason,” Clare says. “I thought you might like to come out with us.”

He does the same thing I would do, drops and rolls out of range, but he doesn’t do
it fast enough. I’m in the door and I take a flying leap onto his chest and knock the
wind out of him. I stand up, put my boot on his chest, point the gun at his head. C’est
magnifique mais ce n’estpas la guerre. He looks kind of like Tom Cruise, very pretty,

all-American. “What position does he play?” I ask Clare.

“Halfback.”

“Hmm. Never would of guessed. Get up, hands up where I can see them,” I tell
him cheerfully. He complies, and I walk him out the door. We are all standing in the
driveway. I have an idea. I send Clare back into the house for rope; she comes out a
few minutes later with scissors and duct tape.

“Where do you want to do this?”

“The woods.”

Jason is panting as we march him into the woods. We walk for about five minutes,

and then I see a little clearing with a handy young elm at the edge of it. “How about
this, Clare?”

“Yeah.”

I look at her. She is completely impassive, cool as a Raymond Chandler murderess.
“Call it, Clare.”

“Tie him to the tree.” I hand her the gun, jerk Jason’s hands into position behind
the tree, and duct tape them together. There’s almost a full roll of duct tape, and I
intend to use all of it. Jason is breathing strenuously, wheezing. I step around him and
look at Clare. She looks at Jason as though he is a bad piece of conceptual art. “Are
you asthmatic?”

He nods. His pupils are contracted into tiny points of black. “I’ll get his inhaler,”
says Clare. She hands the gun back to me and ambles off through the woods along the
path we came down. Jason is trying to breathe slowly and carefully. He is trying to
talk.

“Who...are you?” he asks, hoarsely.

“I’m Clare’s boyfriend. I’m here to teach you manners, since you have none.” I
drop my mocking tone, and walk close to him, and say softly, “How could you do
that to her? She’s so young. She doesn’t know anything, and now you’ve completely

fucked up everything...”

“She’s a.. .cock.. .tease.”

“She has no idea. It’s like torturing a kitten because it bit you.”

Jason doesn’t answer. His breath comes in long, shivering whinnies. Just as I am
becoming concerned, Clare arrives. She holds up the inhaler, looks at me. “Darling,
do you know how to use this thing?”


“I think you shake it and then put it in his mouth and press down on the top.” She
does this, asks him if he wants more. He nods. After four inhalations, we stand and
watch him gradually subside into more normal breathing.

“Ready?” I ask Clare.

She holds up the scissors, makes a few cuts in the air. Jason flinches. Clare walks
over to him, kneels, and begins to cut off his clothes. “Hey,” says Jason.

“Please be quiet,” I say. “No one is hurting you. At the moment.” Clare finishes
cutting off his jeans and starts on his T-shirt. I start to duct tape him to the tree. I
begin at his ankles, and wind very neatly up his calves and thighs. “Stop there,” Clare
says, indicating a point just below Jason’s crotch. She snips off his underwear. I start
to tape his waist. His skin is clammy and he’s very tan everywhere except inside a
crisp outline of a Speedo-type bathing suit. He’s sweating heavily. I wind all the way
up to his shoulders, and stop, because I want him to be able to breathe. We step back
and admire our work. Jason is now a duct-tape mummy with a large erection. Clare
begins to laugh. Her laugh sounds spooky, echoing through the woods. I look at her
sharply. There’s something knowing and cruel in Clare’s laugh, and it seems to me
that this moment is the demarcation, a sort of no-man’s-land between Clare’s
childhood and her life as a woman.

“What next?” I inquire. Part of me wants to turn him into hamburger and part of
me doesn’t want to beat up somebody who’s taped to a tree.

Jason is bright red. It contrasts nicely with the gray duct tape.

“Oh,” says Clare. “You know, I think that’s enough.”

I am relieved. So of course I say, “You sure? I mean there are all sorts of things I
could do. Break his eardrums? Nose? Oh, wait, he’s already broken it once himself.
We could cut his Achilles’ tendons. He wouldn’t be playing football in the near
future.”

“No!” Jason strains against the tape.

“Apologize, then,” I tell him.

Jason hesitates. “Sorry.”

“That’s pretty pathetic—”

“I know,” Clare says. She fishes around in her purse and finds a Magic Marker.
She walks up to Jason as though he is a dangerous zoo animal, and begins to write on
his duct-taped chest. When she’s done, she stands back and caps her marker. She’s
written an account of their date. She sticks the marker back in her purse and says,
“Let’s go.”

“You know, we can’t just leave him. He might have another asthma attack.”

“Hmm. Okay, I know. I’ll call some people.”

“Wait a minute,” says Jason.


“What?” says Clare.

“Who are you calling? Call Rob.”

Clare laughs. “Uh-uh. I’m going to call every girl I know.”

I walk over to Jason and place the muzzle of the gun under his chin. “If you
mention my existence to one human and I find out about it I will come back and I will
devastate you. You won’t be able to walk, talk, eat, or fuck when I’m done. As far as
you know, Clare is a nice girl who for some inexplicable reason doesn’t date. Right?”

Jason looks at me with hatred. “Right.”

“We’ve dealt with you very leniently, here. If you hassle Clare again in any way

you will be sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” I place the gun back in my pocket. “It’s been fun.”

“Listen, dickface—”

Oh, what the hell. I step back and put my whole weight into a side kick to the
groin. Jason screams. I turn and look at Clare, who is white under her makeup. Tears
are running down Jason’s face. I wonder if he’s going to pass out. “Let’s go,” I say.
Clare nods. We walk back to the car, subdued. I can hear Jason yelling at us. We
climb in, Clare starts the car, turns, and rockets down the driveway and onto the street.

I watch her drive. It’s beginning to rain. There’s a satisfied smile playing around
the edges of her mouth. “Is that what you wanted?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Clare. “That was perfect. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” I’m getting dizzy. “I think I’m almost gone.”

Clare pulls onto a sidestreet. The rain is drumming on the car. It’s like riding
through a car wash. “Kiss me,” she demands. I do, and then I’m gone.

Monday, September 28, 1987 (Clare is 16)

CLARE: At school on Monday, everybody looks at me but no one will speak to me. I
feel like Harriet the Spy after her classmates found her spy notebook. Walking down
the hall is like parting the Red Sea. When I walk into English, first period, everyone
stops talking. I sit down next to Ruth. She smiles and looks worried. I don’t say
anything either but then I feel her hand on mine under the table, hot and small. Ruth
holds my hand for a moment and then Mr. Partaki walks in and she takes her hand
away and Mr. Partaki notices that everyone is uncharacteristically silent. He says
mildly, “Did you all have a nice weekend?” and Sue Wong says, “Oh, yes” and
there’s a shimmer of nervous laughter around the room. Partaki is puzzled, and


there’s an awful pause. Then he says, “Well, great, then let s embark on Billy Budd.
In 1851, Herman Melville published Moby-Dick, or, The Whale, which was greeted
with resounding indifference by the American public...” It’s all lost on me. Even with
a cotton undershirt on, my sweater feels abrasive, and my ribs hurt. My classmates
arduously fumble their way through a discussion of Billy Budd. Finally the bell rings,
and they escape. I follow, slowly, and Ruth walks with me.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Mostly.”

“I did what you said.”

“What time?”

“Around six. I was afraid his parents would come home and find him. It was hard
to cut him out. The tape ripped off all his chest hair.”

“Good. Did a lot of people see him?”

“Yeah, everybody. Well, all the girls. No guys, as far as I know.” The halls are

almost empty. I’m standing in front of my French classroom. “Clare, I understand
why you did it, but what I don’t get is how you did it.”

“I had some help.”

The passing bell rings and Ruth jumps. “Oh my god. I’ve been late to gym five
times in a row!” She moves away as though repelled by a strong magnetic field. “Tell
me at lunch,” Ruth calls as I turn and walk into Madame Simone’s room.

“ Ah, Mademoiselle Abshire, asseyez-vous, s’il vous plait.” I sit between Laura and
Helen. Helen writes me a note: Good for you. The class is translating Montaigne. We
work quietly, and Madame walks around the room, correcting. I’m having trouble
concentrating. The look on Henry’s face after he kicked Jason: utterly indifferent, as
though he had just shaken his hand, as though he was thinking about nothing in
particular, and then he was worried because he didn’t know how I would react, and I
realized that Henry enjoyed hurting Jason, and is that the same as Jason enjoying
hurting me? But Henry is good. Does that make it okay? Is it okay that I wanted him
to do it?

“ Clare, attendez” Madame says, at my elbow.

After the bell once again everyone bolts out. I walk with Helen. Laura hugs me
apologetically and runs off to her music class at the other end of the building. Helen
and I both have third-period gym.

Helen laughs. “Well, dang, girl. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How’d you get him
taped to that tree?”

I can tell I’m going to get tired of that question. “I have a friend who does things
like that. He helped me out.”

“Who is ‘he’?”


“A client of my dad’s,” I lie.

Helen shakes her head. “You’re such a bad liar.” I smile, and say nothing.

“It’s Henry, right?”

I shake my head, and put my finger to my lips. We have arrived at the girls’ gym.
We walk into the locker room and abracadabra! all the girls stop talking. Then
there’s a low ripple of talk that fills the silence. Helen and I have our lockers in the
same bay. I open mine and take out my gym suit and shoes. I have thought about
what I am going to do. I take off my shoes and stockings, strip down to my undershirt
and panties. I’m not wearing a bra because it hurt too much.

“Hey, Helen,” I say. I peel off my shirt, and Helen turns.

“Jesus Christ, Clare!” The bruises look even worse than they did yesterday. Some
of them are greenish. There are welts on my thighs from Jason’s belt. “Oh, Clare.”
Helen walks to me, and puts her arms around me, carefully. The room is silent, and I
look over Helen’s shoulder and see that all the girls have gathered around us, and
they are all looking. Helen straightens up, and looks back at them, and says, “Well?”
and someone in the back starts to clap, and they are all clapping, and laughing, and
talking, and cheering, and I feel light, light as air.

Wednesday, July 12, 1995 (Clare is 24, Henry is 32)

CLARE: I’m lying in bed, almost asleep, when I feel Henry’s hand brushing over my
stomach and realize he’s back. I open my eyes and he bends down and kisses the little
cigarette burn scar, and in the dim night light I touch his face. “Thank you,” I say, and
he says, “It was my pleasure,” and that is the only time we ever speak of it.

Sunday, September 11, 1988 (Henry is 36, Clare is 17)

HENRY: Clare and I are in the Orchard on a warm September afternoon. Insects drone
in the Meadow under golden sun. Everything is still, and as I look across the dry
grasses the air shimmers with warmth. We are under an apple tree. Clare leans against
its trunk with a pillow under her to cushion the tree roots. I am lying stretched out
with my head in her lap. We have eaten, and the remains of our lunch lie scattered
around us, with fallen apples interspersed. I am sleepy and content. It is January in
my present, and Clare and I are struggling. This summer interlude is idyllic.

Clare says, “I’d like to draw you, just like that.”

“Upside down and asleep?”


“Relaxed. You look so peaceful.”

Why not? “Go ahead.” We are out here in the first place because Clare is supposed
to be drawing trees for her art class. She picks up her sketchbook and retrieves the
charcoal. She balances the book on her knee. “Do you want me to move?” I ask her.

“No, that would change it too much. As you were, please.” I resume staring idly at
the patterns the branches make against the sky.

Stillness is a discipline. I can hold quite still for long stretches of time when I’m
reading, but sitting for Clare is always surprisingly difficult.

Even a pose that seems very comfortable at first becomes torture after fifteen
minutes or so. Without moving anything but my eyes, I look at Clare. She is deep in
her drawing. When Clare draws she looks as though the world has fallen away,
leaving only her and the object of her scrutiny. This is why I love to be drawn by
Clare: when she looks at me with that kind of attention, I feel that I am everything to
her. It’s the same look she gives me when we’re making love. Just at this moment she

looks into my eyes and smiles.

“I forgot to ask you: when are you coming from?”

“January, 2000.”

Her face falls. “Really? I thought maybe a little later.”

“Why? Do I look so old?”

Clare strokes my nose. Her fingers travel across the bridge and over my brows.
“No, you don’t. But you seem happy and calm, and usually when you come from
1998, or ‘99 or 2000, you’re upset, or freaked out, and you won’t tell me why. And
then in 2001 you’re okay again.”

I laugh. “You sound like a fortune teller. I never realized you were tracking my
moods so closely.”

“What else have I got to go on?”

“Remember, it’s stress that usually sends me in your direction, here. So you
shouldn’t get the idea that those years are unremittingly horrible. There are lots of
nice things in those years, too.”

Clare goes back to her drawing. She has given up asking me about our future.
Instead she asks, “Henry, what are you afraid of?”

The question surprises me and I have to think about it. “Cold,” I say. “I am afraid
of winter. I am afraid of police. I am afraid of traveling to the wrong place and time
and getting hit by a car or beat up. Or getting stranded in time, and not being able to
come back. I am afraid of losing you.”

Clare smiles. “How could you lose me? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I worry that you will get tired of putting up with my undependableness and you
will leave me.”


Clare puts her sketchbook aside. I sit up. “I won’t ever leave you,” she says. “Even
though you’re always leaving me.”

“But I never want to leave you.”

Clare shows me the drawing. I’ve seen it before; it hangs next to Clare’s drawing
table in her studio at home. In the drawing I do look peaceful. Clare signs it and
begins to write the date. “Don’t,” I say. “It’s not dated.”

“It’s not?”

“I’ve seen it before. There’s no date on it.”

“Okay.” Clare erases the date and writes Meadowlark on it instead. “Done.” She
looks at me, puzzled. “Do you ever find that you go back to your present and
something has changed? I mean, what if I wrote the date on this drawing right now?
What would happen?”

“I don’t know. Try it,” I say, curious. Clare erases the word Meadowlark and
writes September 11, 1988.

“There,” she says, “that was easy.” We look at each other, bemused. Clare laughs.
“If I’ve violated the space-time continuum it isn’t very obvious.”

“I’ll let you know if you’ve just caused World War III.” I’m starting to feel shaky.
“I think I’m going, Clare.” She kisses me, and I’m gone.

Thursday, January 13, 2000 (Henry is 36, Clare is 28)

HENRY: After dinner I’m still thinking about Clare’s drawing, so I walk out to her
studio to look at it. Clare is making a huge sculpture out of tiny wisps of purple paper;
it looks like a cross between a Muppet and a bird’s nest. I walk around it carefully
and stand in front of her table. The drawing is not there.

Clare comes in carrying an armful of abaca fiber. “Hey.” She throws it on the floor
and walks over to me. “What’s up?”

“Where’s that drawing that used to hang right there? The one of me?”

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it fell down.” Clare dives under the table and says,
“I don’t see it. Oh, wait here it is.” She emerges holding the drawing between two
fingers. “Ugh, it’s all cobwebby.” She brushes it off and hands it to me. I look it over.
There’s still no date on it.

“What happened to the date?”

“What date?”

“You wrote the date at the bottom, here. Under your name. It looks like it’s been

trimmed off.”


Clare laughs. “Okay. I confess. I trimmed it.”

“Why?”

“I got all freaked by your World War III comment. I started thinking, what if we
never meet in the future because I insisted on testing this out?”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just am.” We stare at each other, and then Clare smiles, and I
shrug, and that’s that. But why does it seem as though something impossible almost
happened? Why do I feel so relieved?