“That’s a great idea. But what I really need isn’t money, it’s clothing.”

　Clare looks at me doubtfully.

　“Does your dad have any clothes he doesn’t need? Even a pair of pants would be great. I mean, I like this towel, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that where I come from, I usually like to wear pants.” Philip Abshire is a tad shorter than me and about thirty pounds heavier. His pants are comical but comfortable on me.

　“I don’t know....”

　“That’s okay, you don’t need to get them right now. But if you bring some next time I come, it would be very nice.”

　“Next time?”

　I find an unused piece of stationery and a pencil. I print in block letters: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 29,1977 AFTER SUPPER. I hand Clare the paper, and she receives it cautiously. My vision is blurring. I can hear Etta calling Clare. “It’s a secret, Clare, okay?”

　“Why?”

　“Can’t tell. I have to go, now. It was nice to meet you. Don’t take any wooden nickels.” I hold out my hand and Clare takes it, bravely. As we shake hands, I disappear.

　

　Wednesday, February 9, 2000 (Clare is 28, Henry is 36)

 

 

　CLARE: It’s early, about six in the morning and I’m sleeping the thin dreamy sleep of six in the morning when Henry slams me awake and I realize he’s been elsewhen. He materializes practically on top of me and I yell, and we scare the shit out of each other and then he starts laughing and rolls over and I roll over and look at him and realize that his mouth is bleeding profusely. I jump up to get a washcloth and Henry is still smiling when I get back and start daubing at his lip.

　“How’d that happen?”

　“You threw a shoe at me.” I don’t remember ever throwing anything at Henry.