The Time Traveler's Wife
Page 46
Alba punches me in the stomach. "Tell it right" she demands.
"Ooof. How can I tell anything if you beat on me like that? Geez."
Alba is quiet. Then she says, "How come you never visit Mama in the future?"
"I don't know, Alba. If I could, I'd be there." The blue is deepening over the horizon and the tide is receding. I stand up and offer Alba my hand, pull her up. As she stands brushing sand from her nightgown she stumbles toward me and says, "Oh!" and is gone and I stand there on the beach holding a damp cotton nightgown and staring at Alba's slender footprints in the fading light.
RENASCENCE
Thursday, December 4, 2008 (Clare is 37)
CLARE: It's a cold, bright morning. I unlock the door of the studio and stamp snow off my boots. I open the shades, turn up the heat. I start a pot of coffee brewing. I stand in the empty space in the middle of the studio and I look around me.
Two years' worth of dust and stillness lies over everything. My drawing table is bare. The beater sits clean and empty. The molds and deckles are neatly stacked, coils of armature wire sit untouched by the table. Paints and pigments, jars of brushes, tools, books; all are just as I left them. The sketches I had thumbtacked to the wall have yellowed and curled. I untack them and throw them in the wastebasket.
I sit at my drawing table and I close my eyes.
The wind is rattling tree branches against the side of the house. A car splashes through slush in the alley. The coffeemaker hisses and gurgles as it spits the last spurt of coffee into the pot. I open my eyes, shiver and pull my heavy sweater closer.
When I woke up this morning I had an urge to come here. It was like a flash of lust: an assignation with my old lover, art. But now I'm sitting here waiting for...something...to come to me and nothing comes. I open a flat file drawer and take out a sheet of indigo-dyed paper. It's heavy and slightly rough, deep blue and cold to the touch like metal. I lay it on the table. I stand and stare at it for a while. I take out a few pieces of soft white pastel and weigh them in my palm. Then I put them down and pour myself some coffee. I stare out the window at the back of the house. If Henry were here he might be sitting at his desk, might be looking back at me from the window above his desk. Or he might be playing Scrabble with Alba, or reading the comics, or making soup for lunch. I sip my coffee and try to feel time revert, try to erase the difference between now and then. It is only my memory that holds me here. Time, let me vanish. Then what we separate by our very presence can come together.
I stand in front of the sheet of paper, holding a white pastel. The paper is vast, and I begin in the center, bending over the paper though I know I would be more comfortable at the easel. I measure out the figure, half-life-sized: here is the top of the head, the groin, the heel of the foot. I rough in a head. I draw very lightly, from memory: empty eyes, here at the midpoint of the head, long nose, bow mouth slightly open. The eyebrows arch in surprise: oh, it's you. The pointed chin and the round jawline, the forehead high and the ears only indicated. Here is the neck, and the shoulders that slope into arms that cross protectively over the breasts, here is the bottom of the rib cage, the plump stomach, full hips, legs slightly bent, feet pointing downward as though the figure is floating in midair. The points of measurement are like stars in the indigo night sky of the paper; the figure is a constellation. I indicate highlights and the figure becomes three dimensional, a glass vessel. I draw the features carefully, create the structure of the face, fill in the eyes, which regard me, astonished at suddenly existing. The hair undulates across the paper, floating weightless and motionless, linear pattern that makes the static body dynamic. What else is in this universe, this drawing? Other stars, far away. I hunt through my tools and find a needle. I tape the drawing over a window and I begin to prick the paper full of tiny holes, and each pin prick becomes a sun in some other set of worlds. And when I have a galaxy full of stars I prick out the figure, which now becomes a constellation in earnest, a network of tiny lights, I regard my likeness, and she returns my gaze. I place my finger on her forehead and say, "Vanish," but it is she who will stay; I am the one who is vanishing.
ALWAYS AGAIN
Thursday, July 24, 2053 (Henry is 43, Clare is 82)
HENRY: I find myself in a dark hallway. At the end of the hall is a door, slightly open with white light spilling around its edges. The hall is full of galoshes and rain coats. I walk slowly and silently to the door and carefully look into the next room. Morning light fills up the room and is painful at first, but as my eyes adjust I see that in the room is a plain wooden table next to a window. A woman sits at the table facing the window. A teacup sits at her elbow. Outside is the lake, the waves rush up the shore and recede with calming repetition which becomes like stillness after a few minutes. The woman is extremely still. Something about her is familiar. She is an old woman; her hair is perfectly white and lies long on her back in a thin stream, over a slight dowager's hump. She wears a sweater the color of coral. The curve of her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture say here is someone who is very tired, and I am very tired, myself. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and the floor creaks; the woman turns and sees me and her face is remade into joy; I am suddenly amazed; this is Clare, Clare old! and she is coming to me, so slowly, and I take her into my arms.
Monday, July 14, 2053 (Clare is 82)
CLARE: This morning everything is clean; the storm has left branches strewn around the yard, which I will presently go out and pick up: all the beach's sand has been redistributed and laid down fresh in an even blanket pocked with impressions of rain, and the daylilies bend and glisten in the white seven a.m. light. I sit at the dining room table with a cup of tea, looking at the water, listening. Waiting.
Today is not much different from all the other days. I get up at dawn, put on slacks and a sweater, brush my hair, make toast, and tea, and sit looking at the lake, wondering if he will come today. It's not much different from the many other times he was gone, and I waited, except that this time I have instructions: this time I know Henry will come, eventually. I sometimes wonder if this readiness, this expectation, prevents the miracle from happening. But I have no choice. He is coming, and I am here.
Now from his breast into his eyes the ache
of longing mounted, and he wept at last,
his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms,
longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer
spent in rough water where his ship went down
under Poseidon's blows, gale winds and tons of sea.
Few men can keep alive through a big surf
to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches
in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind:
and so she too rejoiced, her gaze upon her husband,
her white arms round him pressed as though forever.
--from, The Odyssey
Homer
translated by Robert Fitzgerald
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a private thing. It's boring to watch, and its pleasures tend to be most intense for the person who's actually doing the writing. So with big gratitude and much awe, I would like to thank everyone who helped me to write and publish The Time Traveler's Wife:
Thank you to Joseph Regal, for saying Yes, and for an education in the wily ways of publishing. It's been a blast. Thank you to the excellent people of MacAdam/Cage, especially Anika Streitfeld, my editor, for patience and care and close scrutiny. It is a great pleasure to work with Dorothy Carico Smith, Pat Walsh, David Poindexter, Kate Nitze, Tom White, and John Gray. And thank you also to Melanie Mitchell, Amy Stoll, and Tasha Reynolds. Many thanks also to Howard Sanders, and to Caspian Dennis.
The Ragdale Foundation supported this book with numerous residencies. Thank you to its marvelous staff, especially Sylvia Brown, Anne Hughes, Susan Tillett, and Melissa Mosher. And thank you to The Illinois Arts Council, and the taxpayers of Illinois, who awarded me a Fellowship in Prose in 2000.
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bsp; Thank you to the librarians and staff, past and present, of the Newberry Library: Dr. Paul Gehl, Bart Smith, and Margaret Kulis. Without their generous help, Henry would have ended up working at Starbucks. I would also like to thank the librarians of the Reference Desk at the Evanston Public Library, for their patient assistance with all sorts of wacko queries.
Thank you to papermakers who patiently shared their knowledge: Marilyn Sward and Andrea Peterson.
Thanks to Roger Carlson of Bookman's Alley, for many years of happy book hunting, and to Steve Kay of Vintage Vinyl for stocking everything I want to listen to. And thanks to Carol Prieto, realtor supreme.
Many thanks to friends, family, and colleagues who read, critiqued, and contributed their expertise: Lyn Rosen, Danea Rush, Jonelle Niffenegger, Riva Lehrer, Lisa Gurr, Robert Vladova, Melissa Jay Craig, Stacey Stern, Ron Falzone, Marcy Henry, Josie Kearns, Caroline Preston, Bill Frederick, Bert Menco, Patricia Niffenegger, Beth Niffenegger, Jonis Agee and the members of her Advanced Novel class, Iowa City, 2001. Thanks to Paula Campbell for her help with the French.
Special thanks to Alan Larson, whose unflagging optimism set me a good example.
Last and best, thanks to Christopher Schneberger: I waited for you, and now you're here.
PERMISSIONS
Excerpt from Man & Time by J.B Priestley Copyright (c)1964, Aldus Books Used by permission of Stanford Educational Corporation (formerly Ferguson Publishing Company). 200 West Jackson Boulevard. Chicago, IL 60606.
"Love After Love" from Collected Poems 1948-1984 by Derek Walcott. Copyright (c)1986 by Derek Walcott Used by permission of Farrar. Straus and Giroux, LLC.
Excerpts from the 'Duino Elegies' and from "Going Blind, copyright (c)1982 by Stephen Mitchell, from The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell, copyright (c)1982 by Stephen Mitchell Used by permission of Random House, Inc.
Excerpt from "Gone Daddy Gone/I Just Want To Make Love To You" written by Gordon Gano and Willie Dixon (c)1980. Gorno Music (ASCAP) and Hoochie Coochie Music (BMI) Used by permission from Gorno Music (administered by Alan N. Skiena, Esq. ) and Hoochie Coochie Music (administered by Bug Music) For additional information on the genre of the blues please contact: The Blues Heaven Foundation (Founded by Willie Dixon in 1981) 2120 S. Michigan Avenue, Chicago. IL 60616 (312) 808-1286.www.bluesheaven.com Excerpt from "Gimme The Car" written by Gordon Gano (c)1980, Gorno Music (ASCAP) Used by permission from Gorno Music Administered by Alan N. Skiena, Esq.
Excerpt from "Add It Up" written by Gordon Gano (c) 1980, Gorno Music (ASCAP) Used by permission from Gorno Music. Administered by Alan N. Skiena, Esq.
References to pharmaceutical products credited to the 2000 edition of the Physicians' Desk Reference Used by permission of Thomson Medical Economics.
Lines by Emily Dickinson reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Ralph W Franklin, ed., Cambridge. Mass The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright (c)1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College Copyright (c)1951, 1955,1979 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College Quotations from the Dictionary of Given Names by Flora Haines Loughead Copyright (c)1933 Used by permission of the Arthur H. Clark Company
Excerpt from "Pussy Power" written by Iggy Pop Copyright (c)1990 James Osterberg Music (BMI)/Administered by BUG All rights reserved Used By Permission
Excerpt from "Yellow Submarine" copyright (c)1966 (Renewed) Sony/ATV Tunes LLC. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved Used by permission Excerpt from Homer The Odyssey translated by Robert Fitzgerald Copyright (c)1961, 1963 by Robert Fitzgerald Copyright renewed 1989 by Benedict R C Fitzgerald, on behalf of the Fitzgerald children Used by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC
AUDREY NIFFENEGGER is a visual artist and writer who lives and works in Chicago. She is the author of The Time Traveler's Wife, a novel which has been translated into more than thirty languages, as well as two visual novels, The Three Incestuous Sisters and The Adventuress. The Night Bookmobile, a graphic novel, was serialized in the Guardian. Her Fearful Symmetry is her most recent novel. She lives in Chicago.
www.audreyniffenegger.com