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

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 deja 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.”

Later, after we have drunk our coffee and eaten Kimy’s perfect almond torte, after
Kimy has shown me photographs of Henry as a baby, a toddler, a high school senior
(to his extreme embarrassment); after Kimy has extracted more information about my
family (“How many rooms? That many! Hey, buddy, how come you don’t tell me she
beautiful and rich?”), we all stand at the front door and I thank Kimy for dinner and
say good night to Mr. DeTamble.


“It was a pleasure, Clare,” he says. “But you must call me Richard.”

“Thank you.. .Richard.” He takes my hand for a moment and for just that moment
I see him as Annette must have seen him, years ago—and then it’s gone and he nods
awkwardly at Henry, who kisses Kimy, and we walk downstairs and into the summer

evening. It seems like years have passed since we went inside.

“Whoosh,” says Henry. “I died a thousand deaths, just watching that.”

“Was I okay?”

“Okay? You were brilliant! He loved you!”

We are walking down the street, holding hands. There’s a playground at the end of
the block and I run to the swings and climb on, and Henry takes the one next to me,
facing the opposite direction, and we swing higher and higher, passing each other,
sometimes in synch and sometimes streaming past each other so fast it seems like
we’re going to collide, and we laugh, and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one
can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our
perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.

Wednesday, June 10, 1992 (Clare is 21)

CLARE: I’m sitting by myself at a tiny table in the front window of Cafe Peregolisi, a
venerable little rat hole with excellent coffee. I’m supposed to be working on a paper
on Alice in Wonderland for the History of the Grotesque class I’m taking this summer;
instead I’m daydreaming, staring idly at the natives, who are bustling and hustling in
the early evening of Halsted Street. I don’t often come to Boy’s Town. I figure I will
get more work done if I’m somewhere that no one I know will think to look for me.
Henry has disappeared. He’s not home and he wasn’t at work today. I am trying not
to worry about it. I am trying to cultivate a nonchalant and carefree attitude. Henry
can take care of himself. Just because I have no idea where he might be doesn’t mean
anything is wrong. Who knows? Maybe he’s with me.

Someone is standing on the other side of the street, waving. I squint, focus, and
realize that it’s the short black woman who was with Ingrid that night at the Aragon.
Celia. I wave back, and she crosses the street. Suddenly she’s standing in front of me.
She is so small that her face is level with mine, although I am sitting and she is
standing.

“Hi, Clare,” Celia says. Her voice is like butter. I want to wrap myself in her voice
and go to sleep.

“Hello, Celia. Have a seat.” She sits, opposite me, and I realize that all of her
shortness is in her legs; sitting down she is much more normal looking.

“I hear tell you got engaged,” she says.


I hold up my left hand, show her the ring. The waiter slouches over to us and Celia
orders Turkish coffee. She looks at me, and gives me a sly smile. Her teeth are white
and long and crooked. Her eyes are large and her eyelids hover halfway closed as
though she’s falling asleep. Her dreadlocks are piled high and decorated with pink
chopsticks that match her shiny pink dress.

“You’re either brave or crazy,” she says.

“So people tell me.”

“Well, by now you ought to know.”

I smile, shrug, sip my coffee, which is room temperature and too sweet.

Celia says, “Do you know where Henry is right now?”

“No. Do you know where Ingrid is right now?”

“Uh-huh,” Celia says. “She’s sitting on a bar stool in Berlin, waiting on me.” She
checks her watch. “I’m late.” The light from the street turns her burnt-umber skin
blue and then purple. She looks like a glamorous Martian. She smiles at me. “Henry
is running down Broadway in his birthday suit with a pack of skinheads on his tail”
Oh, no.

The waiter brings Celia’s coffee and I point at my cup. He refills it and I carefully
measure a teaspoon of sugar in and stir. Celia stands a demi-tasse spoon straight up in
the tiny cup of Turkish coffee. It is black and dense as molasses. Once upon a time
there were three little sisters. ..and they lived at the bottom of a well... Why did they
live at the bottom of a well?...It was a treacle well.

Celia is waiting for me to say something. Curtsy while you’re thinking what to say.
It saves time. “Really?” I say. Oh, brilliant, Clare.

“You don’t seem too worried. My man were running around in his altogether like
that I would wonder a little bit, myself.”

“Yeah, well, Henry’s not exactly the most average person.”

Celia laughs. “You can say that again, sister.” How much does she know? Does
Ingrid know? Celia leans toward me, sips her coffee, opens her eyes wide, raises her
eyebrows and purses her lips. “You really gonna marry him?”

A mad impulse makes me say, “If you don’t believe me you can watch me do it.
Come to the wedding.”

Celia shakes her head. “Me? You know, Henry don’t like me at all. Not one bit.”

“Well, you don’t seem to be a big fan of his, either.”

Celia grins. “I am now. He dumped Miss Ingrid Carmichel hard, and I’m picking
up the pieces.” She glances at her watch again. “Speaking of whom, I am late for my
date.” Celia stands up, and says, “Why don’t you come along?”

“Oh, no thanks.”


“Come on, girl. You and Ingrid ought to get to know each other. You have so
much in common. We’ll have a little bachelorette party.”

“In Berlin?”

Celia laughs. “Not the city. The bar.” Her laugh is caramel; it seems to emanate
from the body of someone much larger. I don’t want her to go, but....

“No, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” I look Celia in the eye. “It
seems mean.” Her gaze holds me, and I think of snakes, of cats. Do cats eat
bats?.. .Do bats eat cats? “Besides, I have to finish this.”

Celia flashes a look at my notebook. “What, is that homework? Ohh, it’s a school
night! Now just listen to your big sister Celia, who knows what’s best for little
schoolgirls—hey, you old enough to drink?”

“Yes ” I tell her proudly. “As of three weeks ago.”

Celia leans close to me. She smells like cinnamon. “Come on come on come on.
You got to live it up a little before you settle down with Mr. Librarian Man. Come
oooooonnnn, Clare. Before you know it you be up to your ears in Librarian babies

shitting their Pampers full of that Dewey decimal system.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Then don’t say nothin‘, just come on.” Celia is packing up my books and

manages to knock over the little pitcher of milk. I start to mop it up but Celia just
marches out of the cafe holding my books. I rush after her.

“Celia, don’t, I need those—” For someone with short legs and five-inch heels
she’s moving fast.

“Uh-uh, I’m not giving ‘em back till you promise you’re coming with me.”

“Ingrid won’t like it.” We are walking in step, heading south on Halstead toward
Belmont. I don’t want to see Ingrid. The first and last time I saw her was the Violent
Femmes concert and that’s fine with me.

“‘Course she will. Ingrid’s been very curious about you.” We turn onto Belmont,
walk past tattoo parlors, Indian restaurants, leather shops and storefront churches. We
walk under the El and there’s Berlin. It doesn’t look too enticing on the outside; the
windows are painted black and I can hear disco pulsating from the darkness behind
the skinny freckled guy who cards me but not Celia, stamps our hands and suffers us
to enter the abyss.

As my eyes adjust I realize that the entire place is full of women. Women are
crowded around the tiny stage watching a female stripper strutting in a red sequined
G-string and pasties. Women are laughing and flirting at the bar. It’s Ladies’ Night.
Celia is pulling me toward a table. Ingrid is sitting there by herself with a tall glass of
sky blue liquid in front of her. She looks up and I can tell that she’s not too pleased to
see me. Celia kisses Ingrid and waves me to a chair. I remain standing.


“Hey, baby,” Celia says to Ingrid.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” says Ingrid. “What did you bring her for?” They both
ignore me. Celia still has her arms wrapped around my books.

“It’s cool, Ingrid, she’s all right. I thought y’all might want to become better
acquainted, that’s all.” Celia seems almost apologetic, but even I can see that she’s
enjoying Ingrid’s discomfort.

Ingrid glares at me. “Why did you come? To gloat?” She leans back in her chair
and tilts her chin up. Ingrid looks like a blond vampire, black

velvet jacket and blood red lips. She is ravishing. I feel like a small-town school
girl. I hold out my hands to Celia and she gives me my books.

“I was coerced. I’m leaving now.” I begin to turn away but Ingrid shoots out a
hand and grabs my arm.

“Wait a minute—” She wrenches my left hand toward her, and I stumble and my
books go flying. I pull my hand back and Ingrid says,“— you’re engaged?” and I
realize that she’s looking at Henry’s ring.

I say nothing. Ingrid turns to Celia. “You knew, didn’t you?” Celia looks down at
the table, says nothing. “You brought her here to rub it in, you bitch.” Her voice is

quiet. I can hardly hear her over the pulsing music.

“No, Ing, I just—”

“Fuck you, Celia.” Ingrid stands up. For a moment her face is close to mine and I
imagine Henry kissing those red lips. Ingrid stares at me. She says, “You tell Henry
he can go to hell. And tell him I’ll see him there.” She stalks out. Celia is sitting with
her face in her hands.

I begin to gather up my books. As I turn to go Celia says, “Wait.”

I wait.

Celia says, “I’m sorry, Clare.” I shrug. I walk to the door, and when I turn back I
see that Celia is sitting alone at the table, sipping Ingrid’s blue drink and leaning her
face against her hand. She is not looking at me.

Out on the street I walk faster and faster until I am at my car, and then I drive
home and I go to my room and I lie on my bed and I dial Henry’s number but he’s not
home and I turn out the light but I don’t sleep.