The Time Traveler's Wife

by Audrey Niffenegger

  Henry glances at me; I don't mind. "Sure," I say. "For a while. We won't see the end, though; we have to get ready for Mass."

  We troop into the TV room, which is off the living room. Alicia turns on the set. A choir is singing It Came Upon the Midnight Clear. "Ugh," she sneers. "Look at those bad yellow plastic robes. They look like rain ponchos." She plops down on the floor and Henry sits on the couch. I sit down next to him. Ever since we arrived I have been worrying constantly about how to behave in front of my various family members in terms of Henry. How close should I sit? If Alicia weren't here I would lie down on the couch, put my head on Henry's lap. Henry solves my problem by scooting closer and putting his arm around me. It's kind of a self-conscious arm: we would never sit this way in any other context. Of course, we never watch TV together. Maybe this is how we would sit if we ever watched TV. The choir disappears and a slew of commercials comes on. McDonald's, a local Buick dealership, Pillsbury, Red Lobster: they all wish us a Merry Christmas. I look at Henry, who has an expression of blank amazement on his face.

  "What?" I ask him softly.

  "The speed. They jump cut every couple seconds; I'm going to be ill." Henry rubs his eyes with his fingers. "I think I'll just go read for a while." He gets up and walks out of the room, and in a minute I hear his feet on the stairs. I offer up a quick prayer: Please, God, let Henry not time travel, especially not when we're about to go to church and I won't be able to explain. Alicia scrambles onto the couch as the opening credits appear on the screen.

  "He didn't last long," she observes.

  "He gets these really bad headaches. The kind where you have to lie in the dark and not move and if anybody says boo your brain explodes."

  "Oh." James Stewart is flashing a bunch of travel brochures, but his departure is cut short by the necessity of attending a dance. "He's really cute."

  "Jimmy Stewart?"

  "Him too. I meant your guy. Henry."

  I grin. I am as proud as if I had made Henry myself. "Yeah."

  Donna Reed is smiling radiantly at Jimmy Stewart across a crowded room. Now they are dancing, and Jimmy Stewart's rival has turned the switch that causes the dance floor to open over a swimming pool. "Mama really likes him."

  "Hallelujah." Donna and Jimmy dance backwards into the pool; soon people in evening clothes are diving in after them as the band continues playing.

  "Nell and Etta approve, also."

  "Great. Now we just have to get through the next thirty-six hours without ruining the good first impression."

  "How hard can that be? Unless--no, you wouldn't be that dumb..." Alicia looks over at me dubiously. "Would you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Of course not," she echoes. "God, I can't believe Mark. What a stupid fuck." Jimmy and Donna are singing Buffalo Girls, won't you come out tonight while walking down the streets of Bedford Falls resplendent in football uniform and bathrobe, respectively. "You should have been here yesterday. I thought Daddy was going to have a coronary right in front of the Christmas tree. I was imagining him crashing into it and the tree falling on him and the paramedics having to heave all the ornaments and presents off him before they could do CPR..." Jimmy offers Donna the moon, and Donna accepts.

  "I thought you learned CPR in school."

  "I would be too busy trying to revive Mama. It was bad, Clare. There was a lot of yelling."

  "Was Sharon there?"

  Alicia laughs grimly. "Are you kidding? Sharon and I were in here trying to chat politely, you know, and Mark and the parentals were in the living room screaming at each other. After a while we just sat here and listened."

  Alicia and I exchange a look that just means So what else is new? We have spent our lives listening to our parents yelling, at each other, at us. Sometimes I feel like if I have to watch Mama cry one more time I'm going to leave forever and never come back. Right now I want to grab Henry and drive back to Chicago, where no one can yell, no one can pretend everything is okay and nothing happened. An irate, paunchy man in an undershirt yells at James Stewart to stop talking Donna Reed to death and just kiss her. I couldn't agree more, but he doesn't. Instead he steps on her robe and she walks obliviously out of it, and the next thing you know she's hiding naked in a large hydrangea bush.

  A commercial for Pizza Hut comes on and Alicia turns off the sound. "Um, Clare?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Has Henry ever been here before?"

  Uh-oh. "No, I don't think so, why?"

  She shifts uneasily and looks away for a second. "You're gonna think I'm nuts."

  "What?"

  "See, I had this weird thing happen. A long time ago... I was, like, about twelve, and I was supposed to be practicing, but then I remembered that I didn't have a clean shirt for this audition or something, and Etta and everybody were out someplace and Mark was supposed to be baby-sitting but he was in his room doing bongs or whatever... Anyway, so I went downstairs, to the laundry room, and I was looking for my shirt, and I heard this noise, you know, like the door at the south end of the basement, the one that goes into the room with all the bicycles, that sort of whoosh noise? So I thought it was Peter, right? So I was standing in the door of the laundry room, sort of listening, and the door to the bicycle room opens and Clare, you won't believe this, it was this totally naked guy who looked just like Henry."

  When I start laughing it sounds fake. "Oh, come on."

  Alicia grins. "See, I knew you would think it was nuts. But I swear, it really happened. So this guy just looks a little surprised, you know, I mean I'm standing there with my mouth hanging open and wondering if this naked guy is going to, you know, rape me or kill me or something, and he just looks at me and goes, 'Oh, hi, Alicia,' and walks into the Reading Room and shuts the door."

  "Huh?"

  "So I run upstairs, and I'm banging on Mark's door and he's telling me to buzz off, and so finally I get him to open the door and he's so stoned that it takes a while before he gets what I'm talking about and then, of course, he doesn't believe me but finally I get him to come downstairs and he knocks on the Reading Room door and we are both really scared, it's like Nancy Drew, you know, where you're thinking, 'Those girls are really dumb, they should just call the police,' but nothing happens, and then Mark opens the door and there's nobody there, and he is mad at me, for, like, making it up, but then we think the man went upstairs, so we both go and sit in the kitchen next to the phone with Nell's big carving knife on the counter."

  "How come you never told me about this?"

  "Well, by the time you all got home I felt kind of stupid, and I knew that Daddy especially would think it was a big deal, and nothing really happened...but it wasn't funny, either, and I didn't feel like talking about it." Alicia laughs. "I asked Grandma once if there were any ghosts in the house, but she said there weren't any she knew of."

  "And this guy, or ghost, looked like Henry?"

  "Yeah! I swear, Clare, I almost died when you guys came in and I saw him, I mean, he's the guy! Even his voice is the same. Well, the one I saw in the basement had shorter hair, and he was older, maybe around forty..."

  "But if that guy was forty, and it was five years ago--Henry is only twenty-eight, so he would have been twenty-three then, Alicia."

  "Oh. Huh. But Clare, it's too weird--does he have a brother?"

  "No. His dad doesn't look much like him."

  "Maybe it was, you know, astral projection or something."

  "Time travel," I offer, smiling.

  "Oh, yeah, right. God, how bizarre." The TV screen is dark for a moment, then we are back with Donna in her hydrangea bush and Jimmy Stewart walking around it with her bathrobe draped over one arm. He's teasing her, telling her he's going to sell tickets to see her. The cad, I think, even as I blush remembering worse things I've said and done to Henry vis a vis the issue of clothing/nakedness. But then a car rolls up and Jimmy Stewart throws Donna her bathrobe. "Your father's had a stroke!" says someone in the car, and off he goes with hardly a backward gla
nce, as Donna Reed stands bereft in her foliage. My eyes tear up. "Jeez, Clare, it's okay, he'll be back," Alicia reminds me. I smile, and we settle in to watch Mr. Potter taunting poor Jimmy Stewart into giving up college and running a doomed savings and loan. "Bastard," Alicia says.

  "Bastard," I agree.

  HENRY: As we walk out of the cold night air into the warmth and light of the church my guts are churning. I've never been to a Catholic Mass. The last time I attended any sort of religious service was my mom's funeral. I am holding on to Clare's arm like a blind man as she leads us up the central aisle, and we file into an empty pew. Clare and her family kneel on the cushioned kneelers and I sit, as Clare has told me to. We are early. Alicia has disappeared, and Nell is sitting behind us with her husband and their son, who is on leave from the Navy. Dulcie sits with a contemporary of hers. Clare, Mark, Sharon, and Philip kneel side by side in varying attitudes: Clare is self-conscious, Mark perfunctory, Sharon calm and absorbed, Philip exhausted. The church is full of poinsettias. It smells like wax and wet coats. There's an elaborate stable scene with Mary and Joseph and their entourage to the right of the altar. People are filing in, choosing seats, greeting each other. Clare slides onto the seat next to me, and Mark and Philip follow suit; Sharon remains on her knees for a few more minutes and then we are all sitting quietly in a row, waiting. A man in a suit walks onto the stage--altar, whatever--and tests the microphones that are attached to the little reading stands, then disappears into the back again. There are many more people now, it's crowded. Alicia and two other women and a man appear stage left, carrying their instruments. The blond woman is a violinist and the mousy brown-haired woman is the viola player; the man, who is so elderly that he stoops and shuffles, is another violinist. They are all wearing black. They sit in their folding chairs, turn on the lights over their music stands, rattle their sheet music, plink at various strings, and look at each other, for consensus. People are suddenly quiet and into this quiet comes a long, slow, low note that fills the space, that connects to no known piece of music but simply exists, sustains. Alicia is bowing as slowly as it is possible for a human to bow, and the sound she is producing seems to emerge from nowhere, seems to originate between my ears, resonates through my skull like fingers stroking my brain. Then she stops. The silence that follows is brief but absolute. Then all four musicians surge into action. After the simplicity of that single note their music is dissonant, modern and jarring and I think Bartok? but then I resolve what I am hearing and realize that they are playing Silent Night. I can't figure out why it sounds so weird until I see the blond violinist kick Alicia's chair and after a beat the piece comes into focus. Clare glances over at me and smiles. Everyone in the church relaxes. Silent Night gives way to a hymn I don't recognize. Everyone stands. They turn toward the back of the church, and the priest walks up the central aisle with a large retinue of small boys and a few men in suits. They solemnly march to the front of the church and take up their positions. The music abruptly stops. Oh, no, I think, what now? Clare takes my hand, and we stand together, in the crowd, and if there is a God, then God, let me just stand here quietly and inconspicuously, here and now, here and now.

  CLARE: Henry looks as though he's about to pass out. Dear God, please don't let him disappear now. Father Compton is welcoming us in his radio announcer voice. I reach into Henry's coat pocket, push my fingers through the hole at the bottom, find his cock, and squeeze. He jumps as though I've administered an electric shock. "The Lord be with you," says Father Compton. "And also with you," we all reply serenely. The same, everything the same. And yet, here we are, at last, for anyone to see. I can feel Helen's eyes boring into my back. Ruth is sitting five rows behind us, with her brother and parents. Nancy, Laura, Mary Christina, Patty, Dave, and Chris, and even Jason Everleigh; it seems like everyone I went to school with is here tonight. I look over at Henry, who is oblivious to all this. He is sweating. He glances at me, raises one eyebrow. The Mass proceeds. The readings, the Kyrie, Peace be with you: and also with you. We all stand for the gospel, Luke, Chapter 2. Everyone in the Roman Empire, traveling to their home towns, to be taxed, Joseph and Mary, great with child, the birth, miraculous, humble. The swaddling clothes, the manger. The logic of it has always escaped me, but the beauty of the thing is undeniable. The shepherds, abiding in the field. The angel: Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy... Henry is jiggling his leg in a very distracting way. He has his eyes closed and he is biting his lip. Multitudes of angels. Father Compton intones, "But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart" "Amen," we say, and sit down for the sermon. Henry leans over and whispers, "Where is the restroom?" "Through that door," I tell him, pointing at the door Alicia and Frank and the others came in through. "How do I get there?" "Walk to the back of the church and then down the side aisle." "If I don't come back--" "You have to come back." As Father Compton says, "On this most joyous of nights..." Henry stands and walks quickly away. Father's eyes follow him as he walks back and over and up to the door. I watch as he slips out the door and it swings shut behind him.

  HENRY: I'm standing in what appears to be the hallway of an elementary school. Don't panic, I repeat to myself. No one can see you. Hide somewhere. I look around, wildly, and there's a door: BOYS. I open it, and I'm in a miniature men's room, brown tile, all the fixtures tiny and low to the ground, radiator blasting, intensifying the smell of institutional soap. I open the window a few inches and stick my face above the crack. There are evergreen trees blocking any view there might have been, and so the cold air I am sucking in tastes of pine. After a few minutes I feel less tenuous. I lie down on the tile, curled up, knees to chin. Here I am. Solid. Now. Here on this brown tile floor. It seems like such a small thing to ask. Continuity. Surely, if there is a God, he wants us to be good, and it would be unreasonable to expect anyone to be good without incentives, and Clare is very, very good, and she even believes in God, and why would he decide to embarrass her in front of all those people--

  I open my eyes. All the tiny porcelain fixtures have iridescent auras, sky blue and green and purple, and I resign myself to going, there's no stopping now, and I am shaking, "No!" but I'm gone.

  CLARE: Father finishes his sermon, which is about world peace, and Daddy leans across Sharon and Mark and whispers, "Is your friend sick?" "Yes," I whisper back, "he has a headache, and sometimes they make him nauseous." "Should I go see if I can help?" "No! He'll be okay." Daddy doesn't seem convinced, but he stays in his seat. Father is blessing the host. I try to suppress my urge to run out and find Henry myself. The first pews stand for communion. Alicia is playing Bach's cello suite no. 2. It is sad and lovely. Come back, Henry. Come back.

  HENRY: I'm in my apartment in Chicago. It's dark, and I'm on my knees in the living room. I stagger up, and whack my elbow on the bookshelves. "Fuck!" I can't believe this. I can't even get through one day with Clare's family and I've been sucked up and spit out into my own fucking apartment like a fucking pinball--

  "Hey." I turn and there I am, sleepily sitting up, on the sofa bed.

  "What's the date?" I demand.

  "December 28, 1991." Four days from now.

  I sit down on the bed. "I can't stand it."

  "Relax. You'll be back in a few minutes. Nobody will notice. You'll be perfectly okay for the rest of the visit."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Stop whining," my self says, imitating Dad perfectly. I want to deck him, but what would be the point? There's music playing softly in the background.

  "Is that Bach?"

  "Huh? Oh, yeah, it's in your head. It's Alicia."

  "That's odd. Oh!" I run for the bathroom, and almost make it.

  CLARE: The last few people are receiving communion when Henry walks in the door, a little pale, but walking. He walks back and up the aisle and squeezes in next to me. "The Mass is ended, go in peace," says Father Compton. "Amen," we respond. The altar boys assemble together like a school of fish around Father, and they proceed
jauntily up the aisle and we all file out after them. I hear Sharon ask Henry if he's okay, but I don't catch his reply because Helen and Ruth have intercepted us and I am introducing Henry.

  Helen simpers. "But we've met before!"

  Henry looks at me, alarmed. I shake my head at Helen, who smirks. "Well, maybe not," she says. "Nice to meet you--Henry." Ruth shyly offers Henry her hand. To my surprise he holds it for a moment and then says, "Hello, Ruth," before I have introduced her, but as far as I can tell she doesn't recognize him. Laura joins us just as Alicia comes up bumping her cello case through the crowd. "Come to my house tomorrow," Laura invites. "My parents are leaving for the Bahamas at four." We all agree enthusiastically; every year Laura's parents go someplace tropical the minute all the presents have been opened, and every year we flock over there as soon as their car disappears around the driveway. We part with a chorus of "Merry Christmas!" and as we emerge through the side door of the church into the parking lot Alicia says, "Ugh, I knew it!" There's deep new snow everywhere, the world has been remade white. I stand still and look at the trees and cars and across the street toward the lake, which is crashing, invisible, on the beach far below the church on the bluff. Henry stands with me, waiting. Mark says, "Come on, Clare," and I do.

  HENRY: It's about 1:30 in the morning when we walk in the door of Meadowlark House. All the way home Philip scolded Alicia for her 'mistake' at the beginning of Silent Night, and she sat quietly, looking out the window at the dark houses and trees. Now everyone goes upstairs to their rooms after saying 'Merry Christmas' about fifty more times except Alicia and Clare, who disappear into a room at the end of the first floor hall. I wonder what to do with myself, and on an impulse I follow them.

  "--a total prick," Alicia is saying as I stick my head in the door. The room is dominated by an enormous pool table which is bathed in the brilliant glare of the lamp suspended over it. Clare is racking up the balls as Alicia paces back and forth in the shadows at the edge of the pool of light.

  "Well, if you deliberately try to piss him off and he gets pissed off, I don't see why you're upset," Clare says.