in the morning. You planning on waiting around till that store opens?"
Ettrich saw that a second cop. the driver, was looking straight ahead and smoking a cigarette. "No, Officer, I was just taking a walk and stopped to look."
"Well then, why don't you keep on walking." Ettrich was about to respond when he saw something. Some•thing that was going to happen to the driver in a few days. It was a family thing. It wasn't a terrible thing, but it was ugly. The man had caused it to happen but was unaware of what the consequences would be. Ettrich saw the man's next few weeks and they were full of sorrow. He saw the policeman's future as easily as he saw the man's face wrapped in its gray veil of cigarette smoke. He walked away.
My Heart Is a Clock
Two nights later Ettrich parked his car in a half-empty lot just as a 747 came in overhead, taking up the whole sky and then the whole world for a few thrilling loud moments. He loved picking people up at the airport. Loved the feel of airports—the comings and go•ings, the tremendous emotions that filled the air like ozone—part•ings forever, welcome
homes after years away, the tactile immediacy of right this moment when so many important things ended or began.
He took a few steps, hesitated, and looked back at his car. He'd washed and vacuumed it like a demon an hour before. Normally this new auto looked like hell. It went weeks, sometimes months, without being washed. Inside lived a dizzying mess of papers, candy wrappers, magazines, books, numerous coins, and other now-fuzzy ephemera that had rolled beneath the seats. On the back floor lay a music cassette with the tape unspooled. Next to it was his daugh•ter's headless Barbie doll (the head had fallen into one of the cracks and was stuck to a breath mint). The variety of junk went on and on in a sometimes surprising, always disgusting array. The only time Ettrich cleaned the car was when he knew someone important was going to ride in it, or he had it tuned and the repair shop threw in a free wash. Kitty's car was immaculate. Isabelle drove an ancient Land Rover that was also messy inside but nothing like this. No automobile was like this. While riding in it one day, Isabelle said his car must have done terrible things in its last life to be damned to living this one with him.
What would Isabelle say when she saw his gleaming car now? Would she be impressed or skeptical that he had transformed it for this occasion? He thought of the postcard that he had sent her after she ran away the last time. On it he had written: "In leaving, you took away a part of my life that didn't belong to you. It was mine, Isabelle, not yours, and not ours in common. Which makes you a thief." What had she thought of that? He never knew because when•ever Isabelle fled, she stopped communicating with him altogether. Even more than her running away, he resented the heartlessness of her silence. It bled all the substance out of the relationship they had created together and the closeness they had attained. Her abrupt silence was nothing but cowardice and a betrayal of a deep, impor•tant trust. They had agreed time and again that the best thing going for them, and what both relished most, was their ability to talk frankly and intimately about everything that mattered. Isabelle's si•lence rudely finished that.
Although she was only half of their dia•logue, she had taken both sides with her into that wordless black hole.
He checked his coat pocket to see if he had the camera with him. Another Isabelle quirk—she had an obsession with picking peo•ple up at airports or train stations when they came to visit her. She said it was an important custom in her family. She felt it was some•thing you must do whether you liked it or not, to show your visitor you cared and make them feel welcome from the first minute. Et•trich thought it was sort of loopy but he also liked how committed she was to the tradition. So he went along with it and
Ettrich saw that a second cop. the driver, was looking straight ahead and smoking a cigarette. "No, Officer, I was just taking a walk and stopped to look."
"Well then, why don't you keep on walking." Ettrich was about to respond when he saw something. Some•thing that was going to happen to the driver in a few days. It was a family thing. It wasn't a terrible thing, but it was ugly. The man had caused it to happen but was unaware of what the consequences would be. Ettrich saw the man's next few weeks and they were full of sorrow. He saw the policeman's future as easily as he saw the man's face wrapped in its gray veil of cigarette smoke. He walked away.
My Heart Is a Clock
Two nights later Ettrich parked his car in a half-empty lot just as a 747 came in overhead, taking up the whole sky and then the whole world for a few thrilling loud moments. He loved picking people up at the airport. Loved the feel of airports—the comings and go•ings, the tremendous emotions that filled the air like ozone—part•ings forever, welcome
homes after years away, the tactile immediacy of right this moment when so many important things ended or began.
He took a few steps, hesitated, and looked back at his car. He'd washed and vacuumed it like a demon an hour before. Normally this new auto looked like hell. It went weeks, sometimes months, without being washed. Inside lived a dizzying mess of papers, candy wrappers, magazines, books, numerous coins, and other now-fuzzy ephemera that had rolled beneath the seats. On the back floor lay a music cassette with the tape unspooled. Next to it was his daugh•ter's headless Barbie doll (the head had fallen into one of the cracks and was stuck to a breath mint). The variety of junk went on and on in a sometimes surprising, always disgusting array. The only time Ettrich cleaned the car was when he knew someone important was going to ride in it, or he had it tuned and the repair shop threw in a free wash. Kitty's car was immaculate. Isabelle drove an ancient Land Rover that was also messy inside but nothing like this. No automobile was like this. While riding in it one day, Isabelle said his car must have done terrible things in its last life to be damned to living this one with him.
What would Isabelle say when she saw his gleaming car now? Would she be impressed or skeptical that he had transformed it for this occasion? He thought of the postcard that he had sent her after she ran away the last time. On it he had written: "In leaving, you took away a part of my life that didn't belong to you. It was mine, Isabelle, not yours, and not ours in common. Which makes you a thief." What had she thought of that? He never knew because when•ever Isabelle fled, she stopped communicating with him altogether. Even more than her running away, he resented the heartlessness of her silence. It bled all the substance out of the relationship they had created together and the closeness they had attained. Her abrupt silence was nothing but cowardice and a betrayal of a deep, impor•tant trust. They had agreed time and again that the best thing going for them, and what both relished most, was their ability to talk frankly and intimately about everything that mattered. Isabelle's si•lence rudely finished that.
Although she was only half of their dia•logue, she had taken both sides with her into that wordless black hole.
He checked his coat pocket to see if he had the camera with him. Another Isabelle quirk—she had an obsession with picking peo•ple up at airports or train stations when they came to visit her. She said it was an important custom in her family. She felt it was some•thing you must do whether you liked it or not, to show your visitor you cared and make them feel welcome from the first minute. Et•trich thought it was sort of loopy but he also liked how committed she was to the tradition. So he went along with it and
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