I think about it. “Yeah.”

　“Well, anyway, the stuff you were drinking was about forty proof. And you had two whiskeys.. .but you seemed perfectly fine and then all of a sudden you looked awful, and then you passed out, and I thought about it and realized you had a lot of booze in you. So I called 911 and here you are.”

　“Thanks. I think”

　“Henry, do you have some kind of death wish?” I consider. “Yes.” I turn to the wall, and pretend to sleep.

　

　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.”