But of what I was.
I can't take any credit for what happened then. It was only an impulse, a spasm of the emotions, a sudden and unexpected clarity of vision. Can a single flash of decency redeem a life like mine? I don't believe it. I refuse to believe it. Had there been time for second thoughts, things might well have gone differently. But there was no time to think. There was only time enough to feel an up welling of revulsion, a visceral desire to be anybody or anything but my own loathsome self, a profound and total yearning to be quit of the burden of such memories as were mine. An aching need to just once do the moral thing.
I let go.
Bobbing gently, the swollen corpus of my past floated up and away, carrying with it the parasitic Corpsegrinder. Everything I had spent all my life accumulating fled from me. It went up like a balloon, spinning, dwindling ... gone. Leaving me only what few flat memories I have narrated here.
I screamed.
And then I cried.
I don't know how long I clung to the fence, mourning my loss. But when I gathered myself together, the Widow was still there.
"Danny," the Widow said. She didn't touch me. "Danny, I'm sorry."
I'd almost rather that she had abandoned me. How do you apologize for sins you can no longer remember? For having been someone who, however abhorrent, is gone forever? How can you expect forgiveness from somebody you have forgotten so completely you don't even know her name? I felt twisted with shame and misery. "Look," I said. "I know I've behaved badly. More than badly. But there ought to be some way to make it up to you. For, you know, everything. Somehow. I mean--"
What do you say to somebody who's seen to the bottom of your wretched and inadequate soul?
"I want to apologize," I said.
With something very close to compassion, the Widow said, "It's too late for that, Danny. It's over. Everything's over. You and I only ever had the one trait in common. We neither of us could ever let go of anything. Small wonder we're back together again. But don't you see, it doesn't matter what you want or don't want--you're not going to get it. Not now. You had your chance. It's too late to make things right." Then she stopped, aghast at what she had just said. But we both knew she had spoken the truth.
"Widow," I said as gently as I could,
"I'm sure Charlie--"
"Shut up."
I shut up.
The Widow closed her eyes and swayed, as if in a wind. A ripple ran through her and when it was gone her features were simpler, more schematic, less recognizably human. She was already beginning to surrender the anthropomorphic.
I tried again. "Widow ... " Reaching out my guilty hand to her.
She stiffened but did not draw away. Our fingers touched, twined, mated.
"Elizabeth," she said. "My name is Elizabeth Connelly."
We huddled together on the ceiling of the Roxy through the dawn and the blank horror that is day. When sunset brought us conscious again, we talked through half the night before making the one decision we knew all along that we'd have to make.
It took us almost an hour to reach the Seven Sisters and climb down to the highest point of Thalia.
We stood holding hands at the top of the mast. Radio waves were gushing out from under us like a great wind. It was all we could do to keep from being blown away.
Underfoot, Thalia was happily chatting with her sisters. Typically, at our moment of greatest resolve, they gave not the slightest indication of interest. But they were all listening to us. Don't ask me how I knew.
"Cobb?" Elizabeth said. "I'm afraid."
"Yeah, me too." A long silence. Then she said, "Let me go first. If you go first, I won't have the nerve."
"Okay."
She took a deep breath--funny, if you think about it--and then she let go, and fell into the sky.
First she was like a kite, and then a scrap of paper, and at the very last she was a rapidly tumbling speck. I stood for a long time watching her falling, dwindling, until she was lost in the background flicker of the universe, just one more spark in infinity.
She was gone and I couldn't help wondering if she had ever really been there at all. Had the Widow truly been Elizabeth Connelly? Or was she just another fragment of my shattered self, a bundle of related memories that I had to come to terms with before I could bring myself to let go? A vast emptiness seemed to spread itself through all of existence. I clutched the mast spasmodically then, and thought: I can't!
But the moment passed. I've got a lot of questions, and there aren't any answers here. In just another instat, I'll let go and follow Elizabeth (if Elizabeth she was) into the night. I will fall forever and I will be converted to background radiation, smeared ever thinner and cooler across the universe, a smooth, uniform, and universal message that has only one decode. Let Thalia carry my story to whoever cares to listen. I won't be here for it.
It's time to go now. Time and then some to leave. I'm frightened, and I'm going.
Now.