Saturday, April 8, 1989 (Clare is 17, Henry is 40)

CLARE: I’m sitting in Grandma Meagram’s room, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle with her. It’s a bright cool April morning and I can see red tulips whipping in the wind in the garden. Mama is down there planting something small and white over by the forsythia. Her hat is almost blowing off and she keeps clapping her hand to her head and finally takes the hat off and sets her work basket on it.

I haven’t seen Henry in almost two months; the next date on the List is three weeks away. We are approaching the time when I won’t see him for more than two years. I used to be so casual about Henry, when I was little; seeing Henry wasn’t anything too unusual. But now every time he’s here is one less time he’s going to be here. And things are different with us. I want something… I want Henry to say something, do something that proves this hasn’t all been some kind of elaborate joke. I want. That’s all. I am wanting.

Grandma Meagram is sitting in her blue wing chair by the window. I sit in the window seat, with the newspaper in my lap. We are about halfway through the crossword. My attention has drifted.

“Read that one again, child,” says Grandma.

“Twenty down. ‘Monkish monkey.’ Eight letters, second letter ‘a’, last letter ‘n’.”

“Capuchin.” She smiles, her unseeing eyes turn in my direction. To Grandma I am a dark shadow against a somewhat lighter background. “That’s pretty good, eh?”

“Yeah, that’s great. Geez, try this one: nineteen across, ‘Don’t stick your elbow out so far.’ Ten letters, second letter ‘u’.”

“Burma Shave. Before your time.”

“Arrgh. I’ll never get this.” I stand up and stretch. I desperately need to go for a walk. My grandmother’s room is comforting but claustrophobic. The ceiling is low, the wallpaper is dainty blue flowers, the bedspread is blue chintz, the carpet is white, and it smells of powder and dentures and old skin. Grandma Meagram sits trim and straight. Her hair is beautiful, white but still slightly tinged with the red I have inherited from her, and perfectly coiled and pinned into a chignon. Grandma’s eyes are like blue clouds. She has been blind for nine years, and she has adapted well; as long as she is in the house she can get around. She’s been trying to teach me the art of crossword solving, but I have trouble caring enough to see one through by myself. Grandma used to do them in ink. Henry loves crossword puzzles.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it,” says Grandma, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her knuckles.

I nod, and then say, “Yes, but it’s kind of windy. Mama’s down there gardening, and everything keeps blowing away on her.”

“How typical of Lucille,” says her mother. “Do you know, child, I’d like to go for a walk.”

“I was just thinking that same thing,” I say. She smiles, and holds out her hands, and I gently pull her out of her chair. I fetch our coats, and tie a scarf around Grandma’s hair to stop it from getting messed up by the wind. Then we make our way slowly down the stairs and out the front door. We stand on the drive, and I turn to Grandma and say, “Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s go to the Orchard,” she says.

“That’s pretty far. Oh, Mama’s waving; wave back.” We wave at Mama, who is all the way down by the fountain now. Peter, our gardener, is with her. He has stopped talking to her and is looking at us, waiting for us to go on so he and Mama can finish the argument they are having, probably about daffodils, or peonies. Peter loves to argue with Mama, but she always gets her way in the end. “It’s almost a mile to the Orchard, Grandma.”

“Well, Clare, there’s nothing wrong with my legs.”

“Okay, then, we’ll go to the Orchard.” I take her arm, and away we go. When we get to the edge of the Meadow I say, “Shade or sun?” and she answers, “Oh, sun, to be sure,” and so we take the path that cuts through the middle of the Meadow, that leads to the clearing. As we walk, I describe.

“We’re passing the bonfire pile. There’s a bunch of birds in it—oh, there they go!”

“Crows. Starlings. Doves, too,” she says.

“Yes…we’re at the gate, now. Watch out, the path is a little muddy. I can see dog tracks, a pretty big dog, maybe Joey from Allinghams’. Everything is greening up pretty good. Here is that wild rose.”

“How high is the Meadow?” asks Grandma.

“Only about a foot. It’s a real pale green. Here are the little oaks.”

She turns her face toward me, smiling. “Let’s go and say hello.” I lead her to the oaks that grow just a few feet from the path. My grandfather planted these three oak trees in the forties as a memorial to my Great Uncle Teddy, Grandma’s brother who was killed in the Second World War. The oak trees still aren’t very big, only about fifteen feet tall. Grandma puts her hand on the trunk of the middle one and says, “Hello.” I don’t know if she’s addressing the tree or her brother.

We walk on. As we walk over the rise I see the Meadow laid out before us, and Henry is standing in the clearing. I halt. “What is it?” Grandma asks. “Nothing,” I tell her. I lead her along the path. “What do you see?” she asks me. “There’s a hawk circling over the woods,” I say. “What time is it?” I look at my watch. “Almost noon.”

We enter the clearing. Henry stands very still. He smiles at me. He looks tired. His hair is graying. He is wearing his black overcoat, he stands out dark against the bright Meadow. “Where is the rock?” Grandma says. “I want to sit down.” I guide her to the rock, help her to sit. She turns her face in Henry’s direction and stiffens. “Who’s there?” she asks me, urgency in her voice. “No one,” I lie.

“There’s a man, there,” she says, nodding toward Henry. He looks at me with an expression that seems to mean Go ahead. Tell her. A dog is barking in the woods. I hesitate.

“Clare,” Grandma says. She sounds scared.

“Introduce us,” Henry says, quietly.

Grandma is still, waiting. I put my arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay, Grandma,” I say. “This is my friend Henry. He’s the one I told you about.” Henry walks over to us and holds out his hand. I place Grandma’s hand in his. “Elizabeth Meagram,” I say to Henry.

“So you’re the one,” Grandma says.

“Yes,” Henry replies, and this Yes falls into my ears like balm. Yes.

“May I?” She gestures with her hands toward Henry.

“Shall I sit next to you?” Henry sits on the rock. I guide Grandma’s hand to his face. He watches my face as she touches his. “That tickles,” Henry says to Grandma.

“Sandpaper,” she says as she runs her fingertips across his unshaven chin. “You’re not a boy,” she says.

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m eight years older than Clare.”

She looks puzzled. “Twenty-five?” I look at Henry’s salt and pepper hair, at the creases around his eyes. He looks about forty, maybe older.

“Twenty-five,” he says firmly. Somewhere out there, it’s true.

“Clare tells me she’s going to marry you,” my grandmother says to Henry.

He smiles at me. “Yes, we’re going to get married. In a few years, when Clare is out of school.”

“In my day, gentlemen came to dinner and met the family.”

“Our situation is…unorthodox. That hasn’t been possible.”

“I don’t see why not. If you’re going to cavort around in meadows with my granddaughter you can certainly come up to the house and be inspected by her parents.”

“I’d be delighted to,” Henry says, standing up, “but I’m afraid right now I have a train to catch.”

“Just a moment, young man—” Grandma begins, as Henry says, “Goodbye, Mrs. Meagram. It was great to finally meet you. Clare, I’m sorry I can’t stay longer—” I reach out to Henry but there’s the noise like all the sound is being sucked out of the world and he’s already gone. I turn to Grandma. She’s sitting on the rock with her hands stretched out, an expression of utter bewilderment on her face.

“What happened?” she asks me, and I begin to explain. When I am finished she sits with her head bowed, twisting her arthritic fingers into strange shapes. Finally she raises her face toward me. “But Clare,” says my grandmother, “he must be a demon.” She says it matter-of-factly, as though she’s telling me that my coat’s buttoned up wrong, or that it’s time for lunch.

What can I say? “I’ve thought of that,” I tell her. I take her hands to stop her from rubbing them red. “But Henry is good. He doesn’t feel like a demon.”

Grandma smiles. “You talk as though you’ve met a peck of them.”

“Don’t you think a real demon would be sort of—demonic?”

“I think he would be nice as pie if he wanted to be.”

I choose my words carefully. “Henry told me once that his doctor thinks he’s a new kind of human. You know, sort of the next step in evolution,”

Grandma shakes her head. “That is just as bad as being a demon. Goodness, Clare, why in the world would you want to marry such a person? Think of the children you would have! Popping into next week and back before breakfast!”

I laugh. “But it will be exciting! Like Mary Poppins, or Peter Pan.”

She squeezes my hands just a little. “Think for a minute, darling: in fairy tales it’s always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at home and wait for the children to fly in the window.”

I look at the pile of clothes lying crumpled on the ground where Henry has left them. I pick them up and fold them. “Just a minute,” I say, and I find the clothes box and put Henry’s clothes in it. “Let’s go back to the house. It’s past lunchtime.” I help her off the rock. The wind is roaring in the grass, and we bend into it and make our way toward the house. When we come to the rise I turn and look back over the clearing. It’s empty.

A few nights later, I am sitting by Grandma’s bed, reading Mrs. Dalloway to her. It’s evening. I look up; Grandma seems to be asleep. I stop reading, and close the book. Her eyes open.

“Hello,” I say.

“Do you ever miss him?” she asks me.

“Every day. Every minute.”

“Every minute,” she says. “Yes. It’s that way, isn’t it?” She turns on her side and burrows into the pillow.

“Good night,” I say, turning out the lamp. As I stand in the dark looking down at Grandma in her bed, self-pity floods me as though I have been injected with it. It’s that way, isn’t it? Isn’t it.

 

 

EAT OR BE EATEN

 

Saturday, November 30, 1991 (Henry is 28, Clare is 20)

HENRY: Clare has invited me to dinner at her apartment. Charisse, Clare’s roommate, and Gomez, Charisse’s boyfriend, will also be dining. At 6:59 p.m. Central Standard Time, I stand in my Sunday best in Clare’s vestibule with my finger on her buzzer, fragrant yellow freesia and an Australian Cabernet in my other arm, and my heart in my mouth. I have not been to Clare’s before, nor have I met any of her friends. I have no idea what to expect.

The buzzer makes a horrible sound and I open the door. “All the way up!” hollers a deep male voice. I plod up four flights of stairs. The person attached to the voice is tall and blond, sports the world’s most immaculate pompadour and a cigarette and is wearing a Solidarnosc T-shirt. He seems familiar, but I can’t place him. For a person named Gomez he looks very… Polish. I find out later that his real name is Jan Gomolinski.

“Welcome, Library Boy!” Gomez booms.

“Comrade!” I reply, and hand him the flowers and the wine. We eyeball each other, achieve détente, and with a flourish Gomez ushers me into the apartment.

It’s one of those wonderful endless railroad apartments from the twenties—a long hallway with rooms attached almost as afterthoughts. There are two aesthetics at work here, funky and Victorian. This plays out in the spectacle of antique petit point chairs with heavy carved legs next to velvet Elvis paintings. I can hear Duke Ellington’s I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good playing at the end of the hall, and Gomez leads me in that direction.

Clare and Charisse are in the kitchen. “My kittens, I have brought you a new toy,” Gomez intones. “It answers to the name of Henry, but you can call it Library Boy” I meet Clare’s eyes. She shrugs her shoulders and holds her face out to be kissed; I oblige with a chaste peck and turn to shake hands with Charisse, who is short and round in a very pleasing way, all curves and long black hair. She has such a kind face that I have an urge to confide something, anything, to her, just to see her reaction. She’s a small Filipino Madonna. In a sweet, Don’t Fuck With Me voice she says, “Oh, Gomez, do shut up. Hello, Henry. I’m Charisse Bonavant. Please ignore Gomez, I just keep him around to lift heavy objects.”

“And sex. Don’t forget the sex,” Gomez reminds her. He looks at me. “Beer?”

“Sure.” He delves into the fridge and hands me a Blatz. I pry off the cap and take a long pull. The kitchen looks as though a Pillsbury dough factory has exploded in it. Clare sees the direction of my gaze. I suddenly recollect that she doesn’t know how to cook.

“It’s a work in progress,” says Clare.

“It’s an installation piece,” says Charisse.

“Are we going to eat it?” asks Gomez.

I look from one to the other, and we all burst out laughing. “Do any of you know how to cook?”

“No.”

“Gomez can make rice.”

“Only Rice-A-Roni.”

“Clare knows how to order pizza.”

“And Thai—I can order Thai, too.”

“Charisse knows how to eat.”

“Shut up, Gomez,” say Charisse and Clare in unison.

“Well, uh…what was that going to be?” I inquire, nodding at the disaster on the counter. Clare hands me a magazine clipping. It’s a recipe for Chicken and Shiitake Risotto with Winter Squash and Pine Nut Dressing. It’s from Gourmand, and there are about twenty ingredients. “Do you have all this stuff?”

Clare nods. “The shopping part I can do. It’s the assembly that perplexes.”

I examine the chaos more closely. “I could make something out of this.”

“You can cook?” I nod.

“It cooks! Dinner is saved! Have another beer!” Gomez exclaims. Charisse looks relieved, and smiles warmly at me. Clare, who has been hanging back almost fearfully, sidles over to me and whispers, “You’re not mad?” I kiss her, just a tad longer than is really polite in front of other people. I straighten up, take off my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. “Give me an apron,” I demand. “You, Gomez—open that wine. Clare, clean up all that spilled stuff, it’s turning to cement. Charisse, would you set the table?”

One hour and forty-three minutes later we are sitting around the dining room table eating Chicken Risotto Stew with Puréed Squash. Everything has lots of butter in it. We are all drunk as skunks.

CLARE: The whole time Henry is making dinner Gomez is standing around the kitchen making jokes and smoking and drinking beer and whenever no one is looking he makes awful faces at me. Finally Charisse catches him and draws her finger across her throat and he stops. We are talking about the most banal stuff: our jobs, and school, and where we grew up, and all the usual things that people talk about when they meet each other for the first time. Gomez tells Henry about his job being a lawyer, representing abused and neglected children who are wards of the state. Charisse regales us with tales of her exploits at Lusus Naturae, a tiny software company that is trying to make computers understand when people talk to them, and her art, which is making pictures that you look at on a computer. Henry tells stories about the Newberry Library and the odd people who come to study the books.

“Does the Newberry really have a book made out of human skin?” Charisse asks Henry.

“Yep. The Chronicles of Nawat Wuzeer Hyderabed. It was found in the palace of the King of Delhi in 1857. Come by some time and I’ll pull it out for you.”

Charisse shudders and grins. Henry is stirring the stew. When he says “Chow time,” we all flock to the table. All this time Gomez and Henry have been drinking beer and Charisse and I have been sipping wine and Gomez has been topping up our glasses and we have not been eating much but I do not realize how drunk we all are until I almost miss sitting down on the chair Henry holds for me and Gomez almost sets his own hair on fire while lighting the candles.

Gomez holds up his glass. “The Revolution!”

Charisse and I raise our glasses, and Henry does, too. “The Revolution!” We begin eating, with enthusiasm. The risotto is slippery and mild, the squash is sweet, the chicken is swimming in butter. It makes me want to cry, it’s so good.

Henry takes a bite, then points his fork at Gomez. “Which revolution?”

“Pardon?”

“Which revolution are we toasting?” Charisse and I look at each other in alarm, but it is too late.

Gomez smiles and my heart sinks. “The next one.”

“The one where the proletariat rises up and the rich get eaten and capitalism is vanquished in favor of a classless society?”

“That very one.”

Henry winks at me. “That seems rather hard on Clare. And what are you planning to do with the intelligentsia?”

“Oh,” Gomez says, “we will probably eat them, too. But we’ll keep you around, as a cook. This is outstanding grub.”

Charisse touches Henry’s arm, confidentially. “We aren’t really going to eat anybody,” she says. “We are just going to redistribute their assets.”

“That’s a relief,” Henry replies. “I wasn’t looking forward to cooking Clare.”

Gomez says, “It’s a shame, though. I’m sure Clare would be very tasty.”

“I wonder what cannibal cuisine is like?” I say. “Is there a cannibal cookbook?”

“The Raw and The Cooked,” says Charisse.

Henry objects. “That’s not really a how-to. I don’t think Lévi-Strauss gives any recipes.”

“We could just adapt a recipe,” says Gomez, taking another helping of the chicken. “You know, Clare with Porcini Mushrooms and Marinara Sauce over Linguini. Or Breast of Clare à l’Orange. Or—”

“Hey,” I say. “What if I don’t want to be eaten?”

“Sorry, Clare,” Gomez says gravely. “I’m afraid you have to be eaten for the greater good.”

Henry catches my eye, and smiles. “Don’t worry, Clare; come the Revolution ‘I’ll hide you at the Newberry. You can live in the stacks and I’ll feed you Snickers and Doritos from the Staff Lunchroom. They’ll never find you.”

I shake my head. “What about ‘First, we kill all the lawyers’?”

“No,” Gomez says. “You can’t do anything without lawyers. The Revolution would get all balled up in ten minutes if lawyers weren’t there to keep it in line.”

“But my dad’s a lawyer,” I tell him, “so you can’t eat us after all.”

“He’s the wrong kind of lawyer” Gomez says. “He does estates for rich people. I, on the other hand, represent the poor oppressed children—”

“Oh, shut up, Gomez,” says Charisse. “You’re hurting Clare’s feelings.”

“I’m not! Clare wants to be eaten for the Revolution, don’t you, Clare?”

“No.”

“Oh.”