The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger
“what are you saying?” “my own personal fat lady is singing, gomez. Time’s up. Game over.” “when?” “soon.” “how soon?” “i don’t know,” i lie. Very, very soon. “anyway, i just wanted to tell you—i know i’ve been a pain in the ass every now and then,” (gomez laughs) “but it’s been great” (i pause, because i am on the verge of tears) “it’s been really great” (and we stand there, inarticulate american male creatures that we are, our breath freezing in clouds before us, all the possible words left unspoken now) and finally i say, “let’s go in,” and we do. As gomez gently replaces me in the wheelchair he embraces me for a moment, and then walks heavily away without looking back. (10:15 p.m.) Clare: henry isn’t in the living room, which is filled with a small but determined group of People trying to dance, in a variety of unlikely ways, to the squirrel nut zippers. Charisse and matt are doing something that looks like the cha-cha, and roberto is dancing with considerable flair with kimy, who moves delicately but steadfastly in a kind of fox trot. Gomez has abandoned sharon for catherine, who whoops as he spins her and laughs when he stops dancing to light a cigarette. Henry isn’t in the kitchen, which has been taken over by raoul and james and lourdes and the rest of my artist friends. They are regaling each other with stories of terrible things art dealers have done to artists, and vice versa. Lourdes is telling the one about ed kienholtz making a kinetic sculpture that drilled a big hole in his dealer’s expensive desk. They all laugh sadistically. I shake my finger at them. “don’t let leah hear you,” i tease. “where’s leah?” Cries james. “i bet she has some great stories—” he goes off in search of my dealer, who is drinking cognac with mark on the stairs. Ben is making himself tea. He has a ziplock baggie with all sorts of foul herbs in it, which he measures carefully into a tea strainer and dunks into a mug of steaming water. “have you seen henry?” I ask him. “yeah, i was just talking to him. He’s on the front porch.” Ben peers at me. “i’m kind of worried about him. He seems very sad. He seemed—” ben stops, makes a gesture with his hand that means i might be wrong about this “he reminded me of some patients i have, when they don’t expect to be around much longer....” My stomach tightens. “he’s been very depressed since his feet...” “i know. But he was talking like he was getting on a train that was leaving momentarily, you know, he told me—” ben lowers his voice, which is always very quiet, so that i can barely hear him: “he told me he loved me, and thanked me.. .i mean, people, guys don’t say that kind of thing if they expect to be around, you know?” Ben’s eyes are swimming behind his glasses, and i put my arms around him, and we stand like that for a minute, my arms encasing ben’s wasted frame. Around us people are chattering, ignoring us. “i don’t want to outlive anybody” ben says. “jesus. After drinking this awful stuff and just generally being a bloody martyr for fifteen years i think i’ve earned the right to have everybody i know file past my casket and say, ‘he died with his boots on.’ or something like that. I’m counting on henry to be there quoting donne, ‘ death, be not proud, you stupid motherfucker.’ it’ll be beautiful.” I laugh. “well, if henry can’t make it, i’ll come. I do a mean imitation of henry.” I raise one eyebrow, lift my chin, lower my voice: “ ‘one short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be sitting in the kitchen in his underwear at three in the morning, doing last week’s crossword puzzle—’” ben cracks up. I kiss his pale smooth cheek and move on. Henry is sitting by himself on the front porch, in the dark, watching it snow. I’ve hardly glanced out the window all day, and now i realize that it’s been snowing steadily for hours. Snowplows are rattling down lincoln avenue, and our neighbors are out shoveling their walks. Although the porch is enclosed it’s still cold out here. “come inside,” i say. I am standing beside him, watching a dog bounding in the snow across the street. Henry puts his arm around my waist and leans his head on my hip. “i wish we could just stop time now,” he says. I’m running my fingers through his hair. It’s stiffer and thicker than it used to be, before it went gray. “clare,” he says. “henry.” “it’s time...” He stops.
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