AN UNPLEASANT SCENE Wednesday, June 28, 2006 (Henry is 43, and 43)

AN UNPLEASANT SCENE


Wednesday, June 28, 2006 (Henry is 43, and 43)

HENRY: I come to in the dark, on a cold concrete floor. I try to sit up, but I get dizzy
and I lie down again. My head is aching. I explore with my hands; there’s a big
swollen area just behind my left ear. As my eyes adjust, I see the faint outlines of
stairs, and Exit signs, and far above me a lone fluorescent bulb emitting cold light.
All around me is the criss-crossed steel pattern of the Cage. I’m at the Newberry,
after hours, inside the Cage.

“Don’t panic” I say to myself out loud. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.” I stop
when I realize that I’m not listening to myself. I manage to get to my feet. I’m
shivering. I wonder how long I have to wait. I wonder what my co-workers will say
when they see me. Because this is it. I’m about to be revealed as the tenuous freak of
nature that I really am. I have not been looking forward to this, to say the least.


I try pacing back and forth to keep warm, but this makes my head throb. I give it
up, sit down in the middle of the floor of the Cage and make myself as compact as
possible. Hours go by. I replay this whole incident in my head, rehearsing my lines,
considering all the ways it could have gone better, or worse. Finally I get tired of that
and play records for myself in my head. That’s Entertainment by the Jam, Pills and
Soap by Elvis Costello, Perfect Day by Lou Reed. I’m trying to remember all the
words to the Gang of Four’s I Love a Man in a Uniform when the lights blink on. Of
course it’s Kevin the Security Nazi, opening the library. Kevin is the last person on
the entire planet I would want to encounter while naked and trapped in the Cage, so
naturally he spots me as soon as he walks in. I am curled up on the floor, playing
possum.

“Who’s there?” Kevin says, louder than necessary. I imagine Kevin standing there,
pasty and hung over in the dank light of the stairwell. His voice bounces around,
echoing off the concrete. Kevin walks down the stairs and stands at the bottom, about
ten feet away from me. “How’d you get in there?” He walks around the Cage. I
continue to pretend to be unconscious. Since I can’t explain, I might as well not be
bothered. “My God, it’s DeTamble,” I can feel him standing there, gaping. Finally he
remembers his radio. “Ah, ten-four, hey, Roy.” Unintelligible static. “Ah, yeah, Roy
it’s Kevin, ah, could you come on down to A46? Yeah, at the bottom.” Squawks.
“Just come on down here.” He turns the radio off. “Lord, DeTamble, I don’t know
what you think you’re trying to prove, but you sure have done it now.” I hear him
moving around. His shoes squeak and he makes a soft grunting noise. I imagine he
must be sitting on the stairs. After a few minutes a door opens upstairs and Roy
comes down. Roy is my favorite security guy. He’s a huge African-American
gentleman who always has a beautiful smile on his face. He’s the King of the Main
Desk, and I’m always glad to arrive at work and bask in his magnificent good cheer.
“Whoa,” Roy says. “What have we here?”

“It’s DeTamble. I can’t figure out how he got in there.”

“DeTamble? My my. That boy sure has a thing for airing out his john-son. I ever
tell you ‘bout the time I found him running around the third-floor Link in his

altogether?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Well, I guess we got to get him out of there.”

“He’s not moving.”

“Well, he’s breathing. You think he’s hurt? Maybe we should call an ambulance.”

“We’re gonna need the fire department, cut him out with those Jaws of Life things
they use on wrecks.” Kevin sounds excited. I don’t want the fire department or
paramedics. I groan and sit up.


“Good morning, Mr. DeTamble,” Roy croons. “You’re here a bit early, aren’t
you?”

“Just a bit,” I agree, pulling my knees to my chin. I’m so cold my teeth hurt from
being clenched. I contemplate Kevin and Roy, and they return my gaze. “I don’t
suppose I could bribe you gentlemen?”

They exchange glances. “Depends,” Kevin says, “on what you have in mind. We
can’t keep our mouths shut about this because we can’t get you out by ourselves.”

“No, no, I wouldn’t expect that.” They look relieved, “Listen. I will give each of
you one hundred dollars if you will do two things for me. The first thing is, I would
like one of you to go out and get me a cup of coffee.”

Roy’s face breaks into his patented King of the Main Desk smile. “Hell, Mr.
DeTamble, I’ll do that for free. ‘Course, I don’t know how you’re gonna drink it,”

“Bring a straw. And don’t get it from the machines in the lounge. Go out and get
real coffee. Cream, no sugar.”

“Will do,” says Roy.

“What’s the second thing?” asks Kevin.

“I want you to go up to Special Collections and grab some clothes out of my desk,
lower right-hand drawer. Bonus points if you can do it without anyone noticing what
you’re up to.”

“No sweat,” Kevin says, and I wonder why I ever disliked the man.

“Better lock off this stairwell,” Roy says to Kevin, who nods and walks off to do it.
Roy stands at the side of the Cage and looks at me with pity. “So, how’d you get

yourself in there?”

I shrug. “I don’t have a really good answer for that.”

Roy smiles, shakes his head. “Well, think about it and I’ll go get you that cup of
coffee.”

About twenty minutes pass. Finally, I hear a door being unlocked and Kevin
comes down the stairs, followed by Matt and Roberto. Kevin catches my eye and
shrugs as though to say, I tried. He feeds my shirt through the mesh of the Cage, and
I put it on while Roberto stands regarding me coldly with his arms crossed. The pants
are a little bulky and it takes some effort to get them into the Cage. Matt is sitting on
the stairs with a doubtful expression. I hear the door opening again. It’s Roy, bringing
coffee and a sweet roll. He places a straw in my coffee and sets it on the floor next to
the roll. I have to drag my eyes away from it to look at Roberto, who turns to Roy and
Kevin and asks, “May we have some privacy?”

“Certainly, Dr. Calle.” The security guards walk upstairs and out the first-floor
door. Now I am alone, trapped, and bereft of an explanation, before Roberto, whom I


revere and whom I have lied to repeatedly. Now there is only the truth, which is more
outrageous than any of my lies.

“All right, Henry,” says Roberto. “Let’s have it.”

HENRY: It’s a perfect September morning. I’m a little late to work because of Alba
(she refused to get dressed) and the El (it refused to come) but not terribly late, by my
standards, anyway. When I sign in at the Main Desk there’s no Roy, it’s Marsha. I
say, “Hey Marsha, where’s Roy?” and she says, “Oh, he’s attending to some
business.” I say, “Oh ” and take the elevator to the fourth floor. When I walk into
Special Collections Isabelle says, “You’re late,” and I say, “But not very.” I walk into
my office and Matt is standing at my window, looking out over the park.

“Hi, Matt,” I say, and Matt jumps a mile.

“Henry!” he says, going white. “How did you get out of the Cage?”

I set my knapsack on my desk and stare at him. “The Cage?”

“You—I just came from downstairs—you were trapped in the Cage, and Roberto
is down there—you told me to come up here and wait, but you didn’t say for what—”

“My god.” I sit down on the desk. “Oh, my god.” Matt sits down in my chair and

looks up at me. “Look, I can explain... ” I begin.

“You can?”

“Sure.” I think about it. “I—you see—oh, fuck,”

“It’s something really weird, isn’t it, Henry?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” We stare at each other. “Look, Matt.. .let’s go downstairs and

see what’s going on, and I’ll explain to you and Roberto together, okay?”

“Okay.” We stand up, and we go downstairs.

As we walk down the east corridor I see Roy loitering near the entrance to the
stairs. He starts when he sees me, and just as he’s about to ask me the obvious, I hear
Catherine say, “Hi, boys, what’s up?” as she breezes past us and tries to open the door
to the stairs. “Hey, Roy, how come no can open?”

“Hum, well, Ms. Mead,” Roy glances at me, “we’ve been having a problem with,
uh...”

“It’s okay, Roy,” I say. “Come on, Catherine. Roy, would you mind staying up
here?” He nods, and lets us into the stairwell.

As we step inside I hear Roberto say, “Listen, I do not appreciate you sitting in
there telling me science fiction. If I wanted science fiction I would borrow some from
Amelia.” He’s sitting on the bottom stairs and as we come down behind him he turns
to see who it is.


“Hi, Roberto,” I say softly. Catherine says, “Oh my god. Oh my god.” Roberto
stands up and loses his balance and Matt reaches over and steadies him. I look over at
the Cage, and there I am. I’m sitting on the floor, wearing my white shirt and khakis
and hugging my knees to my chest, obviously freezing and hungry. There’s a cup of
coffee sitting outside the Cage. Roberto and Matt and Catherine watch us silently.

“When are you from?” I ask.

“August, 2006.” I pick up the coffee, hold it at chin level, poke the straw through
the side of the Cage. He sucks it down. “You want this sweet roll?” He does. I break
it into three parts and push it in. I feel like I’m at the zoo. “You’re hurt,” I say. “I hit

my head on something,” he says. “How much longer are you going to be here?”

“Another half hour or so.” He gestures to Roberto. “You see?”

“What is going on?” Catherine asks.

I consult my self. “You want to explain?”

“I’m tired. Go ahead.”

So I explain. I explain about being a time traveler, the practical and genetic aspects
of it. I explain about how the whole thing is really a sort of disease, and I can’t
control it. I explain about Kendrick, and about how Clare and I met, and met again. I
explain about causal loops, and quantum mechanics and photons and the speed of
light. I explain about how it feels to be living outside of the time constraints most
humans are subject to. I explain about the lying, and the stealing, and the fear. I
explain about trying to have a normal life. “And part of having a normal life is having
a normal job,” I conclude.

“I wouldn’t really call this a normal job,” Catherine says.

“I wouldn’t call this a normal life,” says my self, sitting inside the Cage.

I look at Roberto, who is sitting on the stairs, leaning his head against the wall. He

looks exhausted, and wistful. “So,” I ask him. “Are you going to fire me?”

Roberto sighs. “No. No, Henry, I’m not going to fire you.” He stands up carefully,
and brushes off the back of his coat with his hand. “But I don’t understand why you
didn’t tell me all this a long time ago.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” says my self. “You didn’t believe me just now,
until you saw.”

“Well, yes—” Roberto begins, but his next words are lost in the odd noise vacuum
that sometimes accompanies my comings and goings. I turn and see a pile of clothes
lying on the floor of the Cage. I will come back later this afternoon and fish them out

with a clothes hanger. I turn back to Matt, Roberto, and Catherine. They look stunned.

“Gosh,” says Catherine. “It’s like working with Clark Kent.”

“I feel like Jimmy Olsen,” says Matt. “Ugh.”

“That makes you Lois Lane,” Roberto teases Catherine.


“No, no, Clare is Lois Lane,” she replies.

Matt says, “But Lois Lane was oblivious to the Clark Kent/Superman connection,
whereas Clare.

“Without Clare I would have given up a long time ago,” I say. “I never understood

why Clark Kent was so hell bent on keeping Lois Lane in the dark.”

“It makes a better story,” says Matt.

“Does it? I don’t know,” I reply.

Friday, July 7, 2006 (Henry is 43)

HENRY: I’m sitting in Kendrick’s office, listening to him explain why it’s not going
to work. Outside the heat is stifling, blazing hot wet wool mummification. In here it’s
air-conditioned enough that I’m hunched gooseflesh in this chair. We are sitting
across from each other in the same chairs we always sit in. On the table is an ashtray
full of cigarette filters. Kendrick has been lighting each cigarette off the end of the
previous one. We’re sitting with the lights off, and the air is heavy with smoke and
cold. I want a drink. I want to scream. I want Kendrick to stop talking so I can ask
him a question. I want to stand up and walk out. But I sit, listening.

When Kendrick stops talking the background noises of the building are suddenly
apparent.

“Henry? Did you hear me?”

I sit up and look at him like a schoolchild caught daydreaming. “Um, no.”

“I asked you if you understood. Why it won’t work.”

“Um, yeah.” I try to pull my head together. “It won’t work because my immune
system is all fucked up. And because I’m old. And because there are too many genes
involved.”

“Right.” Kendrick sighs and stubs out his cigarette in the mound of stubs. Tendrils
of smoke escape and die. “I’m sorry.” He leans back in his chair and clasps his soft
pink hands together in his lap. I think about the first time I saw him, here in this
office, eight years ago. Both of us were younger and cockier, confident in the bounty
of molecular genetics, ready to use science to confound nature. I think about holding
Kendrick’s time-traveling mouse in my hands, about the surge of hope I felt then,
looking at my tiny white proxy. I think about the look on Clare’s face when I tell her
it’s not going to work. She never thought it would work, though.

I clear my throat. “What about Alba?”

Kendrick crosses his ankles and fidgets. “What about Alba?”

“Would it work for her?”


“We’ll never know, will we? Unless Clare changes her mind about letting me
work with Alba’s DNA. And we both know perfectly well that Clare’s terrified of
gene therapy. She looks at me like I’m Josef Mengele every time I try to discuss it
with her.”

“But if you had Alba’s DNA” I say, “you could make some mice and work on
stuff for her and when she turns eighteen if she wants she can try it.”

“Yes.”

“So even if I’m fucked at least Alba might benefit someday.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then.” I stand and rub my hands together, pluck my cotton shirt away from
my body where it has been adhered by now-cold sweat. “That’s what we’ll do.”

Friday, July 14, 2006 (Clare is 35, Henry is 43)

CLARE: I’m in the studio making gampi tissue. It’s a paper so thin and transparent
you can see through it; I plunge the su-ketta into the vat and bring it up, rolling the
delicate slurry around until it is perfectly distributed. I set it on the corner of the vat to
drain, and I hear Alba laughing, Alba running through the garden, Alba yelling,
“Mama! Look what Daddy got me!” She bursts through the door and clatters toward
me, Henry following more sedately. I look down to see why she is clattering and I see:
ruby slippers.

“They’re just like Dorothy’s!” Alba says, doing a little tap dance on the wooden
floor. She taps her heels together three times, but she doesn’t vanish. Of course, she’s
already home. I laugh. Henry looks pleased with himself.

“Did you make it to the post office?” I ask him.

His face falls. “Shit. No, I forgot. Sorry. I’ll go tomorrow, first thing.” Alba is
twirling around, and Henry reaches out and stops her. “Don’t, Alba. You’ll get

dizzy.”

“I like being dizzy.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

Alba is wearing a T-shirt and shorts. She has a Band-Aid over the skin in the

crook of her elbow. “What happened to your arm?” I ask her. Instead of answering
she looks at Henry, so I do, too.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “She was sucking on her skin and she gave herself a
hickey.”

“What’s a hickey?” Alba asks. Henry starts to explain but I say, “Why does a
hickey need a Band-Aid?”


“I dunno ” he says. “She just wanted one.”

I have a premonition. Call it the sixth sense of mothers. I walk over to Alba. “Let’s
see.”

She hugs her arm close to her, clutching it tight with her other arm. “Don’t take off
the Band-Aid. It’ll hurt.”

“I’ll be careful.” I grip her arm firmly. She makes a whimpering noise, but I am
determined. Slowly I unbend her arm, peel off the bandage gently. There’s a small
red puncture wound in the center of a purple bruise. Alba says, “It’s sore, don’t” and
I release her. She sticks the Band-Aid back down, and watches me, waiting.

“Alba, why don’t you go call Kimy and see if she wants to come over for dinner?”
Alba smiles and races out of the studio. In a minute the back door of the house bangs.
Henry is sitting at my drawing table, swiveling slightly back and forth in my chair.

He watches me. He waits for me to say something.

“I don’t believe it,” I finally say. “How could you?”

“I had to” Henry says. His voice is quiet. “She—I couldn’t leave her without at
least—I wanted to give her a head start. So Kendrick can be working on it, working
for her, just in case.” I walk over to him, squeaking in my galoshes and rubber apron,
and lean against the table. Henry tilts his head, and the light rakes his face and I see
the lines that run across his forehead, around the edges of his mouth, his eyes. He has
lost more weight. His eyes are huge in his face. “Clare, I didn’t tell her what it was
for. You can tell her, when... it’s time.”

I shake my head, no. “Call Kendrick and tell him to stop.”

“No.”

“Then I will.”

“Clare, don’t—”

“You can do whatever you want with your own body, Henry, but—”

“Clare!” Henry squeezes my name out through clenched teeth.

“What?”

“It’s over, okay? I’m done. Kendrick says he can’t do anything more.”

“But—” I pause to absorb what he’s just said. “But then...what happens?”

Henry shakes his head. “I don’t know. Probably what we thought might
happen...happens. But if that’s what happens, then...I can’t just leave Alba without
trying to help her...oh, Clare, just let me do this for her! It may not work, she may
never use it—she may love time traveling, she may never be lost, or hungry, she may
never get arrested or chased or raped or beat up, but what if she doesn’t love it? What
if she wants to just be a regular girl? Clare? Oh, Clare, don’t cry...” But I can’t stop, I
stand weeping in my yellow rubber apron, and finally Henry stands up and puts his
arms around me. “It’s not like we ever were exempt, Clare,” he says softly. “I’m just


trying to make her a safety net.” I can feel his ribs through his T-shirt. “Will you let
me at least leave her that?” I nod, and Henry kisses my forehead. “Thank you,” he
says, and I start to cry again.

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

HENRY: I know the end, now. It goes like this: I will be sitting in the Meadow, in the
early morning, in autumn. It will be overcast, and chilly, and I will be wearing a black
wool overcoat and boots and gloves. It will be a date that is not on the List. Clare will
be asleep, in her warm twin bed. She will be thirteen years old.

In the distance, a shot will crack across the dry cold air. It is deer-hunting season.
Somewhere out there, men in bright orange garments will be sitting, waiting,
shooting. Later they will drink beer, and eat the sandwiches their wives have packed
for them.

The wind will pick up, will ripple through the orchard, stripping the useless leaves
from the apple trees. The back door of Meadowlark House will slam, and two tiny
figures in fluorescent orange will emerge, carrying matchstick rifles. They will walk
toward me, into the Meadow, Philip and Mark. They will not see me, because I will
be huddled in the high grass, a dark, unmoving spot in a field of beige and dead green.
About twenty yards from me Philip and Mark will turn off the path and walk towards
the woods.

They will stop and listen. They will hear it before I do: a rustling, thrashing,
something moving through the grass, something large and clumsy, a flash of white, a
tail perhaps? and it will come toward me, toward the clearing, and Mark will raise his
rifle, aim carefully, squeeze the trigger, and:

There will be a shot, and then a scream, a human scream. And then a pause. And
then: “ Clare! Clare!” And then nothing.

I will sit for a moment, not thinking, not breathing. Philip will be running, and
then I will be running, and Mark, and we will converge on the place:

But there will be nothing. Blood on the earth, shiny and thick. Bent dead grass.
We will stare at each other without recognition, over the empty dirt.

In her bed, Clare will hear the scream. She will hear someone calling her name,
and she will sit up, her heart jumping in her ribcage. She will run downstairs, out the
door, into the Meadow in her nightgown. When she sees the three of us she will stop,
confused. Behind the backs of her father and brother I will put my finger to my lips.
As Philip walks to her I will turn away, will stand in the shelter of the orchard and
watch her shivering in her father’s embrace, while Mark stands by, impatient and


perplexed, his fifteen-year-old’s stubble gracing his chin and he will look at me, as
though he is trying to remember.

And Clare will look at me, and I will wave to her, and she will walk back to her
house with her dad, and she will wave back, slender, her nightgown blowing around
her like an angel’s, and she will get smaller and smaller, will recede into the distance
and disappear into the house, and I will stand over a small trampled bloody patch of
soil and I will know: somewhere out there I am dying.