SECRET Thursday, February 10, 2005 (Clare is 33, Henry is 41)

SECRET


Thursday, February 10, 2005 (Clare is 33, Henry is 41)

CLARE: It’s Thursday afternoon and I’m in the studio making pale yellow kozo paper.
Henry’s been gone for almost twenty-four hours now, and as usual I’m torn between
thinking obsessively about when and where he might be and being pissed at him for
not being here and worrying about when he’ll be back. It’s not helping my
concentration and I’m ruining a lot of sheets; I plop them off the su and back into the
vat. Finally I take a break and pour myself a cup of coffee. It’s cold in the studio, and
the water in the vat is supposed to be cold although I have warmed it a little to save
my hands from cracking. I wrap my hands around the ceramic mug. Steam wafts up. I
put my face over it, inhale the moisture and coffee smell. And then, oh thank you,
God, I hear Henry whistling as he comes up the path through the garden, into the
studio. He stomps the snow off his boots and shrugs off his coat. He’s looking
marvelous, really happy. My heart is racing and I take a wild guess: “May 24, 1989?”

“ Yes, oh, yes!” Henry scoops me up, wet apron and Wellingtons and all, and
swings me around. Now I’m laughing, we’re both laughing. Henry exudes delight.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been needlessly wondering all these years. Vixen!
Minx!” He’s biting my neck and tickling me.

“But you didn’t know, so I couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh. Right. My God, you’re amazing.” We sit on the grungy old studio couch.
“Can we turn up the heat in here?”

“Sure.” Henry jumps up and turns the thermostat higher. The furnace kicks in.

“How long was I gone?”

“Almost a whole day.”

Henry sighs. “Was it worth it? A day of anxiety in exchange for a few really
beautiful hours?”

“Yes. That was one of the best days of my life.” I am quiet, remembering. I often
invoke the memory of Henry’s face above me, surrounded by blue sky, and the
feeling of being permeated by him. I think about it when he’s gone and I’m having

trouble sleeping.

“Tell me....”

“Mmmm?” We are wrapped around each other, for warmth, for reassurance.


“What happened after I left?”

“I picked everything up and made myself more or less presentable and went back
up to the house. I got upstairs without running into anyone and I took a bath. After a
while Etta started hammering on the door wanting to know why I was in the tub in
the middle of the day and I had to pretend I was sick. And I was, in a way...I spent the
summer lounging around, sleeping a lot. Reading. I just kind of rolled up into myself.
I spent some time down in the Meadow, sort of hoping you might show up. I wrote
you letters. I burned them. I stopped eating for a while and Mom dragged me to her
therapist and I started eating again. At the end of August my parents informed me that
if I didn’t ‘perk up’ I wouldn’t be going to school that fall, so I immediately perked
up because my whole goal in life was to get out of the house and go to Chicago. And
school was a good thing; it was new, I had an apartment, I loved the city. I had
something to think about besides the fact that I had no idea where you were or how to
find you. By the time I finally did run into you I was doing pretty well; I was into my

work, I had friends, I got asked out quite a bit—”

“Oh?”

“Sure.”

“Did you go? Out?”

“Well, yeah. I did. In the spirit of research.. .and because I occasionally got mad
that somewhere out there you were obliviously dating other women. But it was all a
sort of black comedy. I would go out with some perfectly nice pretty young art boy,
and spend the whole evening thinking about how boring and futile it was and
checking my watch. I stopped after five of them because I could see that I was really
pissing these guys off. Someone put the word out at school that I was a dyke and then
I got a wave of girls asking me out.”

“I could see you as a lesbian.”

“Yeah; behave yourself or I’ll convert.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a lesbian.” Henry is looking dreamy and heavy-lidded;
not fair when I am wound up and ready to jump on him. He yawns. “Oh, well, not in
this lifetime. Too much surgery.”

In my head I hear the voice of Father Compton behind the grille of the
confessional, softly asking me if there’s anything else I want to confess. No, I tell him
firmly. No, there isn’t. That was a mistake. I was drunk, and it doesn’t count. The
good Father sighs, and pushes the curtain across. End of confession. My penance is to
lie to Henry, by omission, as long as we both shall live. I look at him, happily
postprandial, sated with the charms of my younger self, and the image of Gomez
sleeping, Gomez’s bedroom in morning light flashes across my mental theater. It was
a mistake, Henry, I tell him silently. I was waiting, and I got sideswiped, just once.


Tell him, says Father Compton, or somebody, in my head. I can’t, I retort. He’ll hate
me.

“Hey,” Henry says gently. “Where are you?”

“Thinking.”

“You look so sad.”

“Do you worry sometimes that all the really great stuff has already happened?”

“No. Well, sort of, but in a different way than you mean. I’m still moving through
the time you’re reminiscing about, so it’s not really gone, for me. I worry that we
aren’t paying close attention here and now. That is, time travel is sort of an altered
state, so I’m more...aware when I’m out there, and it seems important, somehow, and
sometimes I think that if I could just be that aware here and now, that things would be
perfect. But there’s been some great things, lately.” He smiles, that beautiful crooked
radiant smile, all innocence, and I allow my guilt to subside, back to the little box
where I keep it crammed in like a parachute.

“Alba.”

“Alba is perfect. And you are perfect. I mean, as much as I love you, back there,

it’s the shared life, the knowing each other....”

“Through thick and thin....”

“The fact that there are bad times makes it more real. It’s the reality that I want.”

Tell him, tell him.

“Even reality can be pretty unreal...” If I’m ever going to say it, now’s the time.
He waits. I just. Can’t.

“Clare?” I regard him miserably, like a child caught in a complicated fib, and then
I say it, almost inaudibly.

“I slept with someone.” Henry’s face is frozen, disbelieving.

“Who?” he asks, without looking at me,

“Gomez.”

“Why?” Henry is still, waiting for the blow.

“I was drunk. We were at a party, and Charisse was in Boston—”

“Wait a minute. When was this?”

“1990.”

He starts to laugh. “Oh, God. Clare, don’t do that to me, shit. 1990. Jesus, I
thought you were telling me something that happened, like, last week.” I smile,
weakly. He says, “I mean, it’s not like I’m overjoyed about it, but since I just got
through telling you to go out and experiment I can’t really...I dunno.” He’s getting
restless. He gets up and starts pacing around the studio. I am incredulous. For fifteen
years I’ve been paralyzed with fear, fear that Gomez would say something, do


something in his big lumbering Gomez callousness, and Henry doesn’t mind. Or does
he?

“How was it?” he asks, quite casually, with his back to me as he messes with the
coffeemaker.

I pick my words with care. “Different. I mean, without getting real critical of
Gomez—”

“Oh, go ahead.”

“It was sort of like being a china shop, and trying to get off with a bull.”

“He’s bigger than me.” Henry states this as fact.

“I wouldn’t know about now, but back then he had no finesse at all. He actually
smoked a cigarette while he was fucking me.” Henry winces. I get up, walk over to
him. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake.” He pulls me to him, and I say, softly, into his
collar, “I was waiting very patiently...” but then I can’t go on. Henry is stroking my
hair. “It’s okay, Clare,” he says. “It’s not so bad.” I wonder if he is comparing the
Clare he has just seen, in 1989, with the duplicitous me in his arms, and, as if reading
my mind he says, “Any other surprises?”

“That was it.”

“God, you can really keep a secret.” I look at Henry, and he stares back at me, and

I can tell that I have altered for him somehow.

“It made me understand, better...it made me appreciate...”

“You’re trying to tell me that I did not suffer by comparison?”

“Yes.” I kiss him, tentatively, and after a moment of hesitation Henry begins to
kiss me back, and before too long we are on our way to being all right again. Better
than all right. I told him, and it was okay, and he still loves me. My whole body feels
lighter, and I sigh with the goodness of confessing, finally, and not even having a
penance, not one Hail Mary or Our Father. I feel like I’ve walked away scot free from
a totaled car. Out there, somewhere, Henry and I are making love on a green blanket
in a meadow, and Gomez is looking at me sleepily and reaching for me with his
enormous hands, and everything, everything is happening now, but it’s too late, as
usual, to change any of it, and Henry and I unwrap each other on the studio couch like
brand new never before boxes of chocolate and it’s not too late, not yet, anyway.

Saturday, April 14, 1990 (Clare is 18)

(6:43 a.m.)
CLARE: I open my eyes and I don’t know where I am. Cigarette smell. Venetian blind


shadow across cracked yellow wall. I turn my head and beside me, sleeping, in his
bed, is Gomez. Suddenly I remember, and I panic.

Henry. Henry will kill me. Charisse will hate me. I sit up. Gomez’s bedroom is a
wreck of overfilled ashtrays, clothes, law textbooks, newspapers, dirty dishes. My
clothes lie in a small, accusing pile on the floor beside me.

Gomez sleeps beautifully. He looks serene, not like a guy who’s just cheated on
his girlfriend with his girlfriend’s best friend. His blond hair is wild, not in its usual
perfect controlled state. He looks like an overgrown boy, exhausted from too many
boyish games.

My head is pounding. My insides feel like they’ve been beaten. I get up, shakily,
and walk down the hall to the bathroom, which is dank and mold-infested and filled
with shaving paraphernalia and damp towels. Once I’m in the bathroom I’m not sure
what I wanted; I pee and I wash my face with the hard soap sliver, and I look at
myself in the mirror to see if I look any different, to see if Henry will be able to tell
just by looking at me.. .I look kind of nauseous, but otherwise I just look the way I
look at seven in the morning.

The house is quiet. There’s a clock ticking somewhere nearby. Gomez shares this
house with two other guys, friends who are also at Northwestern’s Law School. I
don’t want to run into anyone. I go back to Gomez’s room and sit on the bed.

“Good morning.” Gomez smiles at me, reaches out to me. I recoil, and burst into
tears. “Whoa. Kitten! Clare, baby, hey, hey...” He scrambles up and soon I am
weeping in his arms. I think of all the times I have cried on Henry’s shoulder. Where
are you? I wonder desperately. I need you, here and now. Gomez is saying rny name,
over and over. What am I doing here, without any clothes on, crying in the embrace
of an equally naked Gomez? He reaches over and hands me a box of tissue, and I
blow my nose, and wipe my eyes, and then I look at him with a look of unconditional
despair, and he looks back at me in confusion.

“Okay now?”

No. How can I be okay? “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

I shrug. Gomez shifts into cross-examining fragile witness mode.

“Clare, have you ever had sex before?” I nod. “Is it Charisse? You feel bad about
it ‘cause of Charisse?” I nod. “Did I do something wrong?” I shake my head. “Clare,
who is Henry?” I gape at him incredulously.

“How do you know?...” Now I’ve done it. Shit. Son of a bitch.

Gomez leans over and grabs his cigarettes from the bedside table, and lights one.
He waves out the match and takes a deep drag. With a cigarette

in his hand, Gomez seems more...dressed, somehow, even though he’s not. He
silently offers me one, and I take it, even though I don’t smoke. It just seems like the


thing to do, and it buys me time to think about what to say. He lights it for me, gets
up, rummages around in his closet, finds a blue bathrobe that doesn’t look all that
clean, and hands it to me. I put it on; it’s huge. I sit on the bed, smoking and watching
Gomez put on a pair of jeans. Even in my wretchedness I observe that Gomez is
beautiful, tall and broad and...large, an entirely different sort of beauty from Henry’s
lithe panther wildness. I immediately feel horrible for comparing. Gomez sets an
ashtray next to me, and sits down on the bed, and looks at me.

“You were talking in your sleep to someone named Henry.”

Damn. Damn. “What did I say?”

“Mostly just ‘Henry’ over and over, like you were calling someone to come to you.
And ‘I’m sorry.’ And once you said ‘Well, you weren’t here,’ like you were really
angry. Who is Henry?”

“Henry is my lover.”

“Clare, you don’t have a lover. Charisse and I have seen you almost every day for
six months, and you never date anyone, and no one ever calls you.”

“Henry is my lover. He’s been gone for a while, and he’ll be back in the fall of
1991.”

“Where is he?” Somewhere nearby.

“I don’t know.” Gomez thinks I am making this up. For no reason I am determined
to make him believe me. I grab my purse, open my wallet, and show Gomez the
photo of Henry. He studies it carefully.

“I’ve seen this guy. Well, no: someone a lot like him. This guy is too old to be the
same person. But that guy’s name was Henry.”

My heart is beating like a mad thing. I try to be casual as I ask, “Where did you
see him?”

“At clubs. Mostly Exit, and Smart Bar. But I can’t imagine that he’s your guy;
he’s a maniac. Chaos attends his every move. He’s an alcoholic, and he’s just... I
don’t know, he’s really rough on women. Or so I hear.”

“Violent?” I can’t imagine Henry hitting a woman.

“No. I don’t know.”

“What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know. Listen, kitten, this guy would chew you up and spit you out.. .he’s
not at all what you need.”

I smile. He’s exactly what I need, but I know that it is futile to go chasing through

clubland trying to find him. “What do I need?”

“Me. Except you don’t seem to think so.”

“You have Charisse. What do you want me for?”


“I just want you. I don’t know why.”

“You a Mormon or something?”

Gomez says very seriously, “Clare, I.. .look, Clare—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Really, I—”

“No. I don’t want to know.” I get up, stub out my cigarette, and start to put my
clothes on. Gomez sits very still and watches me dress. I feel stale and dirty and
creepy putting on last night’s party dress in front of Gomez, but I try not to let it show.
I can’t do the long zipper in the back of the dress and Gomez gravely helps me with it.

“Clare, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself.”

“This guy must be really something if he can walk away from a girl like you and
expect you to be around two years later.”

I smile at Gomez. “He is amazing.” I can see that I have hurt Gomez’s feelings.
“Gomez, I’m sorry. If I was free, and you were free...” Gomez shakes his head, and
before I know it, he’s kissing me. I kiss back, and there’s just a moment when I

wonder.... “I’ve got to go now, Gomez.”

He nods.

I leave.

Friday, April 27, 1990 (Henry is 26)

HENRY: Ingrid and I are at the Riviera Theater, dancing our tiny brains out to the
dulcet tones of Iggy Pop. Ingrid and I are always happiest together when we are
dancing or fucking or anything else that involves physical activity and no talking.
Right now we are in heaven. We’re way up front and Mr. Pop is whipping us all into
a compact ball of manic energy. I told Ing once that she dances like a German and she
didn’t like it, but it’s true: she dances seriously, like lives are hanging in the balance,
like precision dancing can save the starving children in India. It’s great. The Iggster is
crooning “ Calling Sister Midnight: well, I’m an idiot for you...” and I know exactly
how he feels. It’s moments like this that I see the point of me and Ingrid. We slash
and burn our way through Lust for Life, China Doll, Funtime. Ingrid and I have taken
enough speed to launch a mission to Pluto, and I have that weird high-pitched feeling
and a deep conviction that I could do this, be here, for the rest of my life and be
perfectly content. Ingrid is sweating. Her white T-shirt has glued itself to her body in
an interesting and aesthetically pleasing way and I consider peeling it off of her but
refrain, because she’s not wearing a bra and I’ll never hear the end of it. We dance,


Iggy Pop sings, and sadly, inevitably, after three encores, the concert finally ends. I
feel great. As we file out with our fellow elated and pumped-up concertgoers, I
wonder what we should do next, Ingrid takes off to go and stand in the long line for
the ladies’ room, and I wait for her out on Broadway. I’m watching a yuppie in a
BMW argue with a valet-parking kid over an illegal space when this huge blond guy
walks up to me.

“Henry?” he asks. I wonder if I’m about to be served with a court summons or
something.

“Yeah?”

“Clare says hello.” Who the hell is Clare?

“Sorry, wrong number.” Ingrid walks up, looking once again like her usual Bond
Girl self. She sizes up this guy, who’s a pretty fine specimen of guyhood. I put my
arm around her.

The guy smiles. “Sorry. You must have a double out there.” My heart contracts;
something’s going on that I don’t get, a little of my future seeping into now, but now
is not the moment to investigate. He seems pleased about something, and excuses
himself, and walks away.

“What was that all about?” says Ingrid.

“I think he thought I was someone else.” I shrug. Ingrid looks worried. Just about
everything about me seems to worry Ingrid, so I ignore it. “Hey, Ing, what shall we

do next?” I feel like leaping tall buildings in a single bound.

“My place?”

“Brilliant.” We stop at Margie’s Candies for ice cream, and soon we’re in the car
chanting “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream” and laughing like
deranged children. Later, in bed with Ingrid, I wonder who Clare is, but then I figure
there’s probably no answer to that, so I forget about it.

Friday, February 18, 2005 (Henry is 41, Clare is 33)

HENRY: I’m taking Charisse to the opera. It’s Tristan und Isolde. The reason I am
here with Charisse and not Clare has to do with Clare’s extreme aversion to Wagner.
I’m not a huge Wagnerite either, but we have season tickets and I’d just as soon go as
not. We were discussing this one evening at Charisse and Gomez’s place, and
Charisse wistfully said that she’d never been to the opera. The upshot of it all is that
Charisse and I are getting out of a taxi in front of the Lyric Opera House and Clare is
at home minding Alba and playing Scrabble with Alicia, who’s visiting us this week.


I’m not really in the mood for this. When I stopped at their house to collect
Charisse, Gomez winked at me and said “Don’t keep her out too late, son!” in his best
clueless-parent voice. I can’t remember the last time Charisse and I did anything by
ourselves. I like Charisse, very much, but I don’t have much of anything to say to her.

I shepherd Charisse through the crowd. She moves slowly, taking in the splendid
lobby, marble and sweeping high galleries full of elegantly understated rich people
and students with faux fur and pierced noses. Charisse smiles at the libretto vendors,
two tuxedoed gents who stand at the entrance to the lobby singing “Libretto! Libretto!
Buy yourself a libretto!” in two-part harmony. No one I know is here. Wagnerites are
the Green Berets of opera fans; they’re made of sterner stuff, and they all know each
other. There’s a lot of air kissing going on as Charisse and I walk upstairs to the
mezzanine.

Clare and I have a private box; it’s one of our indulgences. I pull back the curtain
and Charisse steps in and says, “Oh!” I take her coat and drape it over a chair, and do
the same with mine. We settle ourselves. Charisse crosses her ankles and folds her
small hands in her lap. Her black hair gleams in the low soft light, and with her dark
lipstick and dramatic eyes Charisse is like an exquisite, wicked child, all dressed up,
allowed to stay up late with the grown-ups. She sits and drinks in the beauty of the
Lyric, the ornate gold and green screen that shields the stage, the ripples of cascading
plaster that rim every arch and dome, the excited murmur of the crowd. The lights go
down and Charisse flashes me a grin. The screen rises, and we are on a boat, and
Isolde is singing. I lean back in my chair and lose myself in the current of her voice.

Four hours, one love potion, and a standing ovation later, I turn to Charisse. “Well,
how did you like it?”

She smiles. “It was silly, wasn’t it? But the singing made it not silly.”

I hold out her coat and she feels around for the arm hole; finds it and shrugs on the
coat. “Silly? I guess. But I’m willing to pretend that Jane Egland is young and
beautiful instead of a three-hundred-pound cow because she has the voice of
Euterpe.”

“Euterpe?”

“The muse of music.” We join the stream of exiting, satiated listeners. Downstairs
we flow out into the cold. I march us up Wacker Drive a bit and manage to snare a
cab after only a few minutes. I’m about to give the cabbie Charisse’s address when
she says, “Henry, let’s go have coffee. I don’t want to go home yet.” I tell the cabbie
to take us to Don’s Coffee Club, which is on Jarvis, at the northern edge of the city.
Charisse chats about the singing, which was sublime; about the sets, which we both
agree were not inspired; about the moral difficulties of enjoying Wagner when you
know he was an anti-Semitic asshole whose biggest fan was Hitler. When we get to
Don’s, the joint is jumping; Don is holding court in an orange Hawaiian shirt and I
wave to him. We find a small table in the back. Charisse orders cherry pie a la mode


and coffee, and I order my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich and coffee. Perry
Como is crooning from the stereo and there’s a haze of cigarette smoke drifting over
the dinette sets and garage sale paintings. Charisse leans her head on her hand and
sighs.

“This is so great. I feel like sometimes I forget what it was like to be a grown-up.”

“You guys don’t go out much?”

Charisse mushes her ice cream around with her fork, laughs. “Joe does this. He
says it tastes better if it’s mushy. God, I’m picking up their bad habits instead of them
learning my good ones.” She eats a bite of pie. “To answer your question, we do go
out, but it’s almost always to political stuff. Gomez is thinking about running for
alderman.”

I swallow my coffee the wrong way and start to cough. When I can talk again I say,
“You’re joking. Isn’t that going over to the dark side? Gomez is always slamming the
city administration.”

Charisse gives me a wry look. “He’s decided to change the system from within.
He’s burned out on horrible child abuse cases. I think he’s convinced himself that he
could actually improve things if he had some clout.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

Charisse shakes her head. “I liked it better when we were young anarchist

revolutionaries. I’d rather blow things up than kiss ass.”

I smile. “I never realized that you were more radical than Gomez.”

“Oh, yeah. Actually, it’s just that I’m not as patient as Gomez. I want action.”

“Gomez is patient?”

“Oh, sure. I mean, look at the whole thing with Clare—” Charisse abruptly stops,
looks at me.

“What whole thing?” I realize as I ask the question that this is why we are here,
that Charisse has been waiting to talk about this. I wonder what she knows that I
don’t know. I wonder if I want to know what Charisse knows. I don’t think I want to
know anything.

Charisse looks away, and then back at me. She looks down at her coffee, puts her
hands around the cup. “Well, I thought you knew, but, like— Gomez is in love with

Clare.”

“Yes.” I’m not helping her out with this.

Charisse is tracing the grain of the table’s veneer with her finger. “So.. .Clare has

been telling him to take a hike, and he thinks that if he just hangs in there long
enough, something will happen, and he’ll end up with her.”

“Something will happen...?”

“To you.” Charisse meets my eyes.


I feel ill. “Excuse me” I say to her. I get up and make my way to the tiny Marilyn
Monroe-plastered bathroom. I splash my face with cold water. I lean against the wall
with my eyes closed. When it becomes obvious that I’m not going anywhere I walk
back into the cafe and sit down. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Charisse looks scared and small. “Henry,” she says quietly. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what, Charisse?”

“Tell me you aren’t going anywhere. Tell me Clare doesn’t want Gomez. Tell me
everything’s going to work out. Or tell me it’s all shit, I don’t know—just tell me
what happens!” Her voice shakes. She puts her hand on my arm, and I force myself
not to pull away.

“You’ll be fine, Charisse. It’ll be okay.” She stares at me, not believing and
wanting to believe. I lean back in my chair. “He won’t leave you.”

She sighs. “And you?”

I am silent. Charisse stares at me, and then she bows her head. “Let’s go home,”
she says, finally, and we do.

Sunday, June 12, 2005 (Clare is 34, Henry is 41)

CLARE: It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon, and I walk into the kitchen to find Henry
standing by the window staring out at the backyard. He beckons me over. I stand
beside him and look out. Alba is playing in the yard with an older girl. The girl is
about seven. She has long dark hair and she is barefoot. She wears a dirty T-shirt with
the Cubs’ logo on it. They are both sitting on the ground, facing each other. The girl
has her back to us. Alba is smiling at her and gesturing with her hands as though she
is flying. The girl shakes her head and laughs.

I look at Henry. “Who is that?”

“That’s Alba.”

“Yes, but who’s with her?”

Henry smiles, but his eyebrows pull together so that the smile seems worried.
“Clare, that’s Alba when she’s older. She’s time traveling.”

“My God.” I stare at the girl. She swivels and points at the house, and I see a quick

profile and then she turns away again. “Should we go out there?”

“No, she’s fine. If they want to come in here they will.”

“I’d love to meet her....”

“Better not—” Henry begins, but as he speaks the two Albas jump up and come

racing toward the back door, hand in hand. They burst into the kitchen laughing.


“Mama, Mama,” says my Alba, three-year-old Alba, pointing, “look! A big girl
Alba!”

The other Alba grins and says, “Hi, Mama ” and I am smiling and I say, “Hello,
Alba,” when she turns and sees Henry and cries out, “Daddy!” and runs to him,
throws her arms around him, and starts to cry. Henry glances at me, bends over Alba,
rocking her, and whispers something in her ear.

HENRY: Clare is white-faced; she stands watching us, holding small Alba’s hand,
Alba who stands watching open-mouthed as her older self clings to me, weeping. I
lean down to Alba, whisper in her ear: “ Don’t tell Mama I died, okay?” She looks up
at me, tears clinging to her long lashes, lips quivering, and nods. Clare is holding a
tissue, telling Alba to blow her nose, hugging her. Alba allows herself to be led off to
wash her face. Small Alba, present Alba, wraps herself around my leg. “Why, Daddy?
Why is she sad?” Fortunately I don’t have to answer because Clare and Alba have
returned; Alba is wearing one of Clare’s T-shirts and a pair of my cutoffs. Clare says,
“Hey, everybody. Why don’t we go get an ice cream?” Both Albas smile; small Alba
dances around us yelling “I scream, you scream, I scream, you scream...” We pile
into the car, Clare driving, three-year-old Alba in the front seat and seven-year-old
Alba in the backseat with me. She leans against me; I put my arm around her.
Nobody says a word except little Alba, who says, “Look, Alba, a doggie! Look, Alba,
look, Alba...” until her older self says, “Yeah, Alba, I see.” Clare drives us to Zephyr;
we settle into a blue glitter vinyl booth and order two banana splits, a chocolate malt,
and a soft-serve vanilla cone with sprinkles, The girls suck down their banana splits
like vacuum cleaners; Clare and I toy with our ice cream, not looking at each other.
Clare says, “Alba, what’s going on, in your present?”

Alba darts a look at me. “Not much,” she says. “Gramps is teaching me Saint-
Saens’ second violin concerto.”

“You’re in a play, at school,” I prompt.

“I am?” she says. “Not yet, I guess.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I guess that’s not till next year.” It goes on like this. We make
halting conversation, working around what we know, what we must protect Clare and
small Alba from knowing. After a while older Alba puts her head in her arms on the
table. “Tired?” Clare asks her. She nods. “We’d better go,” I tell Clare. We pay, and I
pick Alba up; she’s limp, almost asleep in my arms. Clare scoops up little Alba,
who’s hyper from all the sugar. Back in the car, as we’re cruising up Lincoln Avenue,
Alba vanishes. “She’s gone back ” I say to Clare. She holds my eyes in the rearview
mirror for a few moments. “Back where, Daddy?” asks Alba. “Back where?”


Later:

CLARE: I’ve finally managed to get Alba to take a nap. Henry is sitting on our bed,
drinking Scotch and staring out the window at some squirrels chasing each other
around the grape arbor. I walk over and sit down next to him. “Hey” I say. Henry
looks at me, puts his arm around me, pulls me to him. “Hey” he says.

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” I ask him.

Henry puts down his drink and starts to undo the buttons on my shirt. “Can I get
away with not telling you?”

“No.” I unbuckle his belt and open the button of his jeans.

“Are you sure?” He’s kissing my neck.

“Yes.” I slide his zipper down, run my hand under his shirt, over his stomach.

“Because you don’t really want to know.” Henry breathes into my ear and runs his
tongue around the rim. I shiver. He takes off my shirt, undoes the clasp of my bra.
My breasts fall loose and I lie back, watching Henry stripping off his jeans and
underwear and shirt. He climbs onto the bed and I say, “Socks.”

“Oh, yeah.” He takes off his socks. We look at each other.

“You’re just trying to distract me ” I say.

Henry caresses my stomach. “I’m trying to distract myself. If I also manage to
distract you, that’s a bonus.”

“You have to tell me.”

“No, I don’t.” He cups my breasts in his hands, runs his thumbs over my nipples.

“I’ll imagine the worst.”

“Go ahead.” I raise my hips and Henry pulls off my jeans and my underwear. He
straddles me, leans over me, kisses me. Oh, God, I think, what can it be? What is the
worst? I close my eyes. A memory: the Meadow, a cold day in my childhood, running
over dead grass, there was a noise, he called my name—

“Clare?” Henry is biting my lips, gently. “Where are you?”

“1984.”

Henry pauses and says, “Why?”

“I think that’s where it happens.”

“Where what happens?”

“Whatever it is you’re afraid to tell me.”

Henry rolls off of me and we are lying side by side. “Tell me about it,” he says.

“It was early. A day in the fall. Daddy and Mark were out deer hunting. I woke up;
I thought I heard you calling me, and I ran out into the meadow, and you were there,


and you and Daddy and Mark were all looking at something, but Daddy made me go
back to the house, so I never saw what you were looking at.”

“Oh?”

“I went back there later in the day. There was a place in the grass all soaked in
blood.”

Henry says nothing. He presses his lips together. I wrap my arms around him, hold

him tightly. I say, “The worst—”

“Hush, Clare.”

“But—”

“Shh.” Outside it is still a golden afternoon. Inside we are cold, and we cling
together for warmth. Alba, in her bed, sleeps, and dreams of ice cream, dreams the
small contented dreams of three, while another Alba, somewhere in the future,
dreams of wrapping her arms around her father, and wakes up to find.. .what?