The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

Author:Audrey Niffenegger [Niffenegger, Audrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Published: 2012-09-18T11:55:35+00:00

Clare: I have talked Henry into getting into my bed, and Gomez and I are sitting in the living room drinking tea and eating peanut butter and kiwi jelly sandwiches.

"Learn to cook, woman," intones Gomez. He sounds like Charleton Heston handing down the Ten Commandments.

"One of these days." I stir sugar into my tea. "Thank you for going and getting him."

"Anything for you, kitten." He starts to roll a cigarette. Gomez is the only person I know who smokes during a meal. I refrain from commenting. He lights up. He looks at me, and I brace myself. "So, what was that little episode all about, hmm? Most of the people who go to Compassionate Pharmacopoeia are AIDS victims or cancer patients."

"You know Ben?" I don't know why I'm surprised. Gomez knows everybody.

"I know of Ben. My mom used to go to Ben when she was having chemo."

"Oh." I review the situation, searching for things I can safely mention.

"Whatever Ben gave him really put him in the Slow Zone."

"We're trying to find something that will help Henry stay in the present."

"He seems a little too inanimate for daily use."

"Yeah." Maybe a lower dosage?

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Aiding and abetting Mr. Mayhem. Marrying him, no less."

Henry calls my name. I get up. Gomez reaches out and grabs my hand.

"Clare. Please—"

"Gomez. Let go." I stare him down. After a long, awful moment he drops his eyes and lets me go. I hurry down the hall into my room and shut the door. Henry is stretched out like a cat, diagonally across the bed face down. I take off my shoes and stretch out beside him.

"How's it going?" I ask him. Henry rolls over and smiles. "Heaven." He strokes my face. "Care to join me?" No. Henry sighs. "You are so good. I shouldn't be trying to corrupt you."

"I'm not good. I'm afraid." We lie together in silence for a long time. The sun is shining now, and it shows me my bedroom in early afternoon: the curve of the walnut bed frame, the gold and violet Oriental rug, the hairbrush and lipstick and bottle of hand lotion on the bureau. A copy of Art in America with Leon Golub on the cover lies on the seat of my old garage-sale armchair partially obscured by A Rebours. Henry is wearing black socks. His long bony feet hang off the edge of the bed. He seems thin to me. Henry's eyes are closed; perhaps he can feel me staring at him, because he opens his eyes and smiles at me. His hair is falling into his face and I brush it back. Henry takes my hand and kisses the palm. I unbutton his jeans and slide my hand over his cock, but Henry shakes his head and takes my hand and holds it.

"Sorry, Clare," he says softly. "There's something in this stuff that seems to have short-circuited the equipment. Later, maybe."

"That'll be fun on our wedding night."

Henry shakes his head. "I can't take this for the wedding.

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