the earth, shiny and thick. Bent dead grass. We will stare at each other without recognition, over the empty dirt.
In her bed, Clare will hear the scream. She will hear someone calling her name, and she will sit up, her heart jumping in her ribcage. She will run downstairs,
MBT Goti, out the door, into the Meadow in her nightgown. When she sees the three of us she will stop, confused. Behind the backs of her father and brother I will put my finger to my lips. As Philip walks to her I will turn away, will stand in the shelter of the orchard and watch her shivering in her father’s embrace, while Mark stands by, impatient and perplexed, his fifteen-year-old’s stubble gracing his chin and he will look at me, as though he is trying to remember.
And Clare will look at me, and I will wave to her,
MBT Vizuri GTX, and she will walk back to her house with her dad, and she will wave back,
MBT Nama, slender, her nightgown blowing around her like an angel’s, and she will get smaller and smaller, will recede into the distance and disappear into the house, and I will stand over a small trampled bloody patch of soil and I will know: somewhere out there I am dying.
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THE EPISODE OF THE MONROE STREET PARKING GARAGE
Monday, January 7, 2006 (Henry is 43)
HENRY: It’s cold. It’s very, very cold and I am lying on the ground in snow. Where am I? I try to sit up. My feet are numb, I can’t feel my feet. I’m in an open space with no buildings or trees. How long have I been here? It’s night. I hear traffic. I get to my hands and knees. I look up. I’m in Grant Park. The Art Institute stands dark and closed across hundreds of feet of blank snow. The beautiful buildings of Michigan Avenue are silent. Cars stream along Lake Shore Drive, headlights cutting through night. Over the lake is a faint line of light; dawn is coming. I have to get out of here. I have to get warm.
I stand up. My feet are white and stiff. I