Outside my windows, the rain has begun to fall in fat drops. Even so, a few brave runners persist, crossing the bridges, windbreakers streaming behind them like pennons. I wonder if they ever look up at these leaden windows, imagining the people inside. Perhaps some passing runner has dreamed up an old woman, living alone, high up on the twenty-sixth story.
I should spend more time outside. I should get caught in the rain. Why stay up here, as if I’m in prison? I’m free. I’m no longer required to admire an imperfect man. I have no obligation to take up your burdens, to ease your fears about your importance. My secrets are my own to keep. I should run along that wild black river, my hair streaming behind me, cold wind slapping my face.
But I’m up here, combing over my letter to you. Maybe it’s impossible to live without obligation. I do miss you often. It’s nice to see you’re doing well, living in your admirable apartment. Last night, while I lay awake again, you in your blue sweater bright in my mind, I had the distinct thought: let me come flying. High over the Atlantic Ocean, let me come flying back to your house. Let me take my place in one of your chairs; let me tame my malevolence for your sake.
But that’s no longer an option. For a while, despite my stubborn silence, you continued speaking to me. I pretended to sleep, but I heard you whisper. You started to talk about us. Our story, as you saw it.
At the time, I was angry. After all these years of treating my losses like a contagion, keeping them confined to convenient use in panel discussions, now you wanted to tell me my story? When every time I tried to do it, your face glazed over and you asked about dinner?
Do not, I thought to myself, make me a character in your little story. Don’t you dare transform me into a protagonist you like the idea of. Innocent, mournful, loyal to my dead little sister. Who is this woman? I thought to myself. She isn’t me. Me, who got on that boat without looking back. Who thought to fight for her sister only when there was an ocean between us.
You’d have known that, if you ever listened. But for the sake of your image of us, I had to be an innocent. So I lay in anger while you whispered to me. While you said how much you loved me, how you wished we’d had a child together, how you yearned for the touch of my fingers. I didn’t move. And then one day the story stopped. Perhaps you’d met Karen already. Perhaps you merely grew tired. Regardless, you stopped, and a hole like a grave yawned open in me.
Angry, I wished for the end of that story, and when you were finished, when you’d stopped speaking, all I wanted was the beginning again.
(5) The Diary of Mary Bradford
1663
ed. Ruth Dettman
19th. Night. Have just experienced odd event. Woke past midnight and unable to sleep, despite reciting list of Ralph’s details. Dressed then, and went up to deck. A strong wind, our sails full, and the prow cutting through water, sea spray kicking up to the rails. Deck nearly empty but for several seamen and, on the far rail, one figure. Above me, vast heavens, thick with swarms of bright stars. More than I had seen in my life. Stood very still, considering them, until, methought, I felt a near presence. Knew without looking that Whittier was come over. Felt him watching me considering heavens. He then asked if such a sight brought consolation. No (writer replied). Only the sense that I am very little indeed. Yes (he said) I, too, feel small. But that brings me comfort. I am small as the smallest atom, and when I am dispersed into atoms, those shall be no smaller, no less important, than I.
Listening to his discourse, and shivering where I stood under the stars, I felt myself to be dissolving already. Black water, black air, all of us sailing through. Whittier asked if writer believed in Copernican science. Seemed eager to find companion in thought. I affirmed that I did.
I, too, believe (he said) that we stand not at the center of the universe. We move about a sun that we shall never reach. I feel this to be true. Have you not always felt yourself to be circling an unreachable center?
Writer: I did not when we were at home. There, I felt that we were the center. Now, yes. I see what you mean. I feel myself to be circling.
Whittier: We have been in flight since the beginning. Since first we were planted on this wandering planet. Departing England, we only continue as we have always.
Writer reminded Whittier that if all this be true, we ought not to fly straight, but should instead travel in circles, heading perpetually homewards.
And yet who knows (Whittier said) how long such a circle will take? Perhaps our journey is but a small part of that loop. We are all infinitesimal parts, and each of us equal. Ralph, for instance, is as small a part as you or I, and of this universe eternally though he take other forms. Atoms, or dust, perhaps later cohering into one of those stars overhead.
It is not enough (I said). It is no comfort to think on Ralph’s presence if he be not Ralph.
He is (Whittier said, and now taking my hand in his own) as present as this.
Writer started at his touch, and yet he remained firm. His face less pocked by starlight, was still very gaunt and heavy shadowed. Do not be frightened (he said). We are each of us made of the same matter.
A strange thing, in the middle of such a large deck, to stand so close to a man. Thought to close my eyes, and so to avoid the sight of his face. In darkness, and trembling, listened for the sound of Whittier’s voice. Tried then to open my heart.
Whittier: We can but hope to hold on for a moment.
And I, very still. Eyes being closed, could almost feel it possible that some part of Ralph could be bound in Whittier’s presence. A serious presence, like Ralph. Unlaughing and kind. Felt this for some time, and holding Whittier’s hand, until with the rise of a wave was taken with a sharp fright: we are sailing over Ralph’s bones. Infinite thickness and mass of ocean’s waters, all covering Ralph. Crushing the body of him.
I cannot feel that it is enough (I said, and blood rising hot to my face). I cannot feel he is with me, if I have not his body to know him.
Whittier pressed closer, and very abruptly, our ship lurching over a swell. Was pulled with ship’s force into his body. In fright, opened my eyes, and could not help but gasp at his face.
Wretched, inconsiderate gasp. Could not recall it before it was out. In shame — for he flinched, hearing the sound, and understanding its meaning completely — I wrenched myself free and ran back below.
But there can be no solace, even in remembering Ralph. Even in writing his name.
19th. Later. Up with many troublesome thoughts. Have reviewed conversation on deck. After initial compunction, am taken anew with fresh anger, to think of Whittier claiming some part of Ralph. Cruel folly, to attempt such substitution. And to claim we can only move forwards! Such nonsense I have never heard. We must traverse a circumference. It is our duty, being human and of this planet, to return to the place from which we began. Though it be convenient, it is not right to venture always heedlessly forth, disregarding from whence we have come.
19th. Later still. After much thinking, have some softened my thoughts, and now there be many new doubts upon me. God knows I have little reason to hold myself so high above Whittier.
Have now sat up a long time, much disturbed by my thoughts, considering shell that Whittier gave me. Have held it much to my ear, listening to the sound of the ocean.