urse.
That is, I wasn't there there were no other versions of Daniel Jamieson
Eakins waiting to meet me.
I should have known it, of course. My birthday fell within the range of
changes I'd been making. I was the only me in this timeline. If I wanted to
find another me, I'd have to go outside the scope of my temporal activity.
I'd have to go into the past. Deep into the past.
The only way to escape the effects of any change is to jump back to a
point before it happened.
I'd been making changes for the past two hundred years. If I was to
meet a variant Dan, we'd both have to go back beyond that span.
But how far back?
I stood by the car, jingling my keys indecisively. The one location I
was sure of was this hospital; the one date, my birthday.
Okay
This spot. The middle of the San Fernando Valley.
The date: January 24. My birthday.
one thousand years ago. Exactly.
I got in the car, set the timebelt to include it, and tapped twice
* * *
POP!
I'd been expecting it, but the jump-shock was still severe. The pain of
it is directly proportional to the amount of mass making the jump.
Rubbing myself ruefully, I opened the door and got out.
My Corvette and I were in the middle of a flat brown plain. Scraggly
plants and bushes all around. I recognized the Hollywood Hills to the
southeast. Crisp blue sky. Unreal; no smog. And dry, almost desertlike
ground stretching emptily to the purple-brown mountains that surrounded the
valley. The San Bernardino range had never looked so forbidding; those black
walls at the far northeast end were undimmed by human haze, undwarfed by
human buildings, unscarred by human roads. I gazed in awe; I'd never really
noticed them before.
"Well?" said a female voice behind me. "Are you going to stand there
and admire the view all day?" I whirled
she was beautiful.
Almost my height. Hair the same color brown as mine. Eyes the same
color green, soft and downturned. The same cast of features, only slightly
more delicate. She could have been my sister.
She indicated the car with a nod and a giggle. "Are you planning to
drive somewhere?"
"I uh, no that is I didn't know what I was planning. I Hey, who are
you?"
"Diane."
"Diane? Is that all?"
She twinkled. "Diana Jane Eakins. Hey, what's the matter? Did I say
something wrong?"
"I'm Dan!" I blurted. "Daniel Eakins. Daniel Jamieson Eakins "
"Oh " she said. And then it sunk in. "Oh!"
* * *
The silence was embarrassing.
"Uh . . ."I said. "I have this timebelt."
"So do I. My Aunt Jane gave it to me."
"I got mine from my Uncle Jim."
She pointed to a gazebo-like affair about a hundred yards off. "Would
you like to sit down?"
"Did you bring that with you?"
"Uh-huh. Do you like it?"
I followed her through the weeds. "Well, it's different." Judging from
its distance and the angle from the car, she had put it up in the hospital
parking lot. "It's more comfortable than a sports car," she said.
I shrugged. "I won't deny it." I recognized the gazebo as a variation
of the Komfy-Kamper (1998): "All the comforts of home in a single unit." I
wondered if I should reach out for her hand. She was looking strangely at me
too. I reached out . . .
We walked side by side the short remaining distance.
"Why did you come back here?" I asked.
"To see if anyone else would," she said. "I was lonely."
"Me too," I admitted. "I suddenly discovered I couldn't find myself.
I'd excised my past and there didn't seem to be any me in the future "
"You too? That's what happened to me. I couldn't
even find my Aunt Jane."
" so I thought I'd come looking for a variant Dan
and find out what happened."
I stopped abruptly. I certainly had found a variant Dan. About as
variant as I could get ... I wondered what I was shaped like under those
clothes.
She let go of my hand and took a step back; she cocked her head
curiously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You're very pretty."
She flushed, then she recovered. "You're kind of
cute too." She peered closely at me. "I've always wondered what I would
look like as a boy. Now I know; I'd be very handsome." Impulsively she put
her hands on my chest. "And very nicely built too not too much muscle, not
so many as to look brutish; just enough to look manly."
Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. I dropped my gaze to her breasts.
"You can touch me if you want."
I wanted to. I did.
Her breasts were nice.
"I don't wear a bra," she said.
"I noticed."
"Do I pass inspection?" she whispered.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Very much so."
She pressed close to me, she moved her face up to mine. . . .
The kiss lasted for a very long, long time.
* * *
The sun was lowering behind the western hills. The sky was all shades
of purple and orange. Twilight was a gray-blue haze.
We'd been talking for hours. We'd stopped to eat and then we'd talked
some more.
We had pulled the shades on three sides of the gazebo and turned the
heat up. We sat naked in the glow of the electric fire and watched the
sunset.
"The more I look at you, the prettier you get," she murmured.
"You too." I stretched across the heater and kissed her.
"Careful," she said after a moment. "Don't burn anything off. We may
want to use it again."
"I hope so." I kissed her again, while she cupped me protectively. I
moved closer.
We lay there side by side for a while. "I can't get over how good you
feel." Her hands stroked up and down my back, my sides, my legs; my hands
held her shoulders, her breasts. I kissed them gently, I kissed her eyelids
too.
She looked up at me. "I liked having you inside me. It was very good."
"I liked being inside you."
She hugged me tight. "I could stay like this forever."
"Me too."
There was silence. The night gathered softly. Our words hung in the
air.
Finally I said, "You know, we could. We could stay here forever."
"Do you want to ... ?"
"Yes," I whispered. I began to move again. "Oh,
yes."
"Oh, Dan," she gasped. "Oh, my darling, my sweet, sweet Dan "
"Oh, baby, yes " I rearranged my position on top
of her and again the silvery warmth tingled
Exploded.
Delighted.
* * *
slid into me.
He was around me and inside me, his arms and legs and penis; we rocked
and moved together, we fitted like one person. He filled me till I
overflowed, kindled and inflamed
We gasped and giggled and sighed and soared and sang and laughed and
cried and leaped and flew and
dazzled and burst, exploding fireworks, surging fire
We rustled and sighed. And died. And hugged and held on.
He was still within me. Sweet squeeze, warmth. I
held him tight. I loved the feel of him, the taste of him. I
loved the smell of him the sweaty sense of masculine
man. Musky. I melted, under him, around him.
Loved him.
* * *
January night. Cold wind. We pulled the last shade.
There was just one more thing. I had to make it complete.
"Dan," I whispered. "I have to tell you something."
"What?" In the pink light, his face was glowing.
I took a breath. "I I'm not exactly a virgin."
"Of course not," he grinned. "We just took care of that."
"No, that's not what I meant. I wasn't a virgin
before."
"Oh?"
"I mean " I forced myself to go on. I had to tell
him everything or it wouldn't be any good. "I was only a
'technical virgin.' I'd never done it with a boy before.
You were the first."
"Yes, of course," he said quietly. "I should have realized. You only
did it with ..."
"Only Donna and Diana. I mean, I only did it
with myself. When I was Donna, I "
He cut me off gently, "I know."
"Is it all right?" I had to know. "You're not disappointed in me?"
"Of course not. I understand."
"I only did it because I was lonely."
"No," he said slowly, shaking his head. "You wanted
to do it and you enjoyed it. You did it because you're the
only person you can trust, the only person you feel completely at ease
with, and you wanted to express your feelings and your affection. You did it
because you loved yourself"
"I yes, you're right." I couldn't deny it.
"Diana," he whispered. "Think a minute. About
me. I'm both Don and Dan. I'm the male reflection of
you."
His eyes were bright.
"Did you ?" I couldn't finish the question.
But he knew what I meant. He nodded. "We did I did."
I thought about that. Dan. Diane.
Dan. Diane.
Boy, Girl.
Same. Person.
And suddenly I was crying. Crying, sobbing into his arms. "Oh, Dan, I'm
so sorry "
He stroked my hair. "It's all right, sweetheart.
There's nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all."
"I'm so stupid "
"No, you're not. You were smart enough to come
looking for me, weren't you?"
"Oh, no I didn't know what I was looking for. I just didn't want to be
alone anymore."
"Neither did I. I didn't know what I wanted either,
but you're just perfect "
"So are you " I wiped at the tears on his chest. I
didn't know what I was feeling anymore. I felt ripped up
and ripped open. I felt so vulnerable. And at the same
time, I felt everything was all right too. He wasn't me.
But he was. And I couldn't get enough of him. He tasted good. Was I in
love or just infatuated? Or was I trying to prove something to myself? I
don't know. But he was the first man I ever felt I could trust. I started
crying again, I don't know why. "Hold me, Dan, hold me tight. Don't let go.
I want you inside me again."
"Oh, yes, baby. Yes, yes. Yes Oh, Danny, I love you."
"Diane, I love you too!"
* * *
The sensuousness of sex. The maleness of me. The femaleness of her. The
physical sensations of strength and warmth. Flesh against smooth flesh. Firm
resistance, supple yielding.
Sex with Diane is different from any kind of sex I have ever had
before. There is something boyish about her that I find strangely
attractive, yet deliciously feminine. I put my arms around her and she is
neither male nor female, but a little of each. And there is something
feminine in me that she responds to. (Perhaps it is a quality that is common
to both of us and independent of physical gender. An androgynous quality. My
body may be male or it may be female, but I am neither I am me.)
I keep thinking of Danny, and it is hard not to make comparisons
between the two of them, even though I know it is unfair to both. But Danny
and I (Don and I) have been through so much together, have meant so much to
each other.
Diane lacks Danny's intensity (yes), but Danny
could never match her sensuality. The sheer physical delight of her
body, the perfect matching of male to female, the tenderness of her response
to mine; all of these combine to make sex with her an experience that is new
to me. I delight in being with her, in being inside of her, just as she
delights in opening to me. I admit it, I am fascinated by her body, by the
femaleness of her, the geography, the open depths that I plunge into, again
and again. ... I lose all consciousness. All that exists is the feeling, the
incredible wallow of emotion and silly talk and discovery after discovery. I
know what is happening to me and I don't care. I admit it happily. I have
become a horny little schoolboy, not just discovering sex but inventing it
fresh and new, as if it had never existed before.
Well, it hasn't. Not for us.
I see her as something special. Not a new person, no, but another
reflection of myself. Another Danny perhaps and in the most different guise
of all. Yes. Danny with a vagina.
Think of her as he. It is the quality of Danny-ness I see in him that
is so intriguing, so independent of sexuality. There is a Danny trapped
inside that female body screaming to let me in. Just as there is a Diane
inside me.
I cannot help but like it.
We enjoy our physical roles as we have never en-
joyed them before; at least I know I do; but deep inside is
a sense of loss. I think I loved my Danny more. And I
think I know why.
With Danny, the physical forms were identical; the mental roles could
be arbitrary. It was just me and him. We could choose our roles, we could
take turns, we could be pansexual. I didn't have to be male, I didn't have
to be dominant. With Don I could be weak, with Don I could cry.
With Diane, it is different.
I feel limited.
And in a sense, I am. I am limited to the role given me by fate, by
gender. My sex is the one thing about myself I cannot alter. Our bodies
determine and define our roles at least to the extent that I must be a man
to her woman. Despite all the different roles either of us are capable of
playing for each other, ultimately we can only return to the ones already
assigned us. (If this is Danny, then Danny is the only woman here. There are
no tradeoffs anymore. Danny has limited our roles.) There is no other
relationship for either of us. At least, that's how I perceive it.
The relationship is not unenjoyable. Indeed, it is the most joyous of
all. But still, there is that sense of loss . . .
* * *
We have been together how long?
Months, it must be.
We have a home on the edge of prehistory, a villa on the shores of what
someday will be called Mission Bay. It's a sprawling mansion on a deserted
coast, a self-contained unit; it has to be, because we brought it back to
the year 100,000 B.C. A honeymoon cottage for the outcasts of time.
The sea washes blue across yellow sands. Seagulls wheel and dive,
cawing raucously. The sun blazes bright in an azure sky. And the only
footprints are ours. We live a strange kind of life in our timeless world.
Loneliness is unknown to us; yet neither of us ever lacks for privacy.
We see each other only when both of us want it. Never can either force
himself on the other. That's part of being a time traveler.
I cannot journey to her future, nor can she to mine. When we bounce
forward, I am in Danny's world, she is in Diane's. The only place we can
meet is in the past, because only the past is unaffected by both of us.
Should either of us need to be alone, we simply
bounce to a different point in time. (I have seen the ruins
of this mansion standing forlorn and alone, swept by the
sands and washed by the sea, while the sun lies orange in
the west. These walls will be dust by the time of Christ.)
Returning, I am in her arms again. I am there because I want to be
there.
She vanishes too, but only momentarily; she returns in a different
dress and hair style. I know she has been gone longer than I have seen, but
I know she comes back to me with her desire at its fullest. I open my arms.
We have never had an argument. It is impossible when either of you can
disappear at the instant of displeasure. All of our moments are happy ones.
Life with Diane is almost idyllic.
Almost.
Today she told me she was pregnant.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that. There is a sense of joy and
wonder in me but I am also disturbed. Jealous that something else, someone
else, can make her glow with such happiness. The look on her face as she
told me I have seen that intensity only in her climax.
I know I shouldn't be, but I am bothered that I cannot give her such
prolonged intensity of joy. And I am bothered that someone else is inside of
her, someone other than me.
And yet, I'm happy. Happy for her, happy for me. I don't know why, but
I know that this baby must be something special.
It must be.
* * *
The baby proves something that I have suspected
for a long time. My life is out of control. I am no longer
the master of my own destiny.
There is little that I can do with this situation. Except run from it.
Or can I . . . ?
* * *
Being pregnant is a special kind of time.
Within me there is life, helpless and small; I can feel
it move. I can feel it grow. I wait eagerly for the day of its
entrance into the world so I can hold it and touch it, love
it and feed it, hold it to my breasts.
This is a special baby. It will be. I know it will be. I am filled with
wonder. I see my body in the mirror, swollen and beautiful. I run my hands
across my bulging stomach in awed delight. This is something Donna could
never have given me. (I miss her though; I wish she were here to share this
moment. She is, of course. She will be here when I need her.)
Oh, there is discomfort too, more than I had expected the difficulties
in bending over and walking, the back pains and the troubles in the
bathroom, the loginess and the nausea but it's worth it. When I think of the
small beautiful wonder which will soon burst into my life, the whole world
turns pink and giggly. I feel that I'm on the threshold of something big.
* * *
The baby was born this morning.
It is a boy. A beautiful, handsome, healthy boy.
I am delighted. And disappointed. I had wanted a girl.
A girl ...
* * *
In 2013 the first genetic-control drug was put on the market. It
allowed a man and woman to choose the sex of their unborn child.
In 2035 in-utero genetic tailoring became practical.
The technique allowed a woman to determine which of several available
chromosomes in the egg and sperm cells would function as dominants. The only
condition was that the tailoring must be done within the first month of
pregnancy.
In 2110 extra-utero genetic tailoring was widespread. The process
allowed the parent to program the shape of his offspring. A computer-coded
germ plasma could be built, link by amino-acid link, implanted into a
genetically neutral egg, then carefully cultured and developed, eventually
to be implanted inside a womb, either real or artificial.
I do not want to design a whole child. I just want a baby girl. I want
her identical to me. I will have to go back and see Diane before she gets
pregnant, but that should be the easy part.
I will not tell Dan this. I think this is a decision that I have to
make myself. The baby is mine and so is the decision. My son will be a girl.
* * *
The baby was born this morning.
It is a girl. A beautiful, pink little girl.
I am delighted. And disappointed. I had wanted a boy.
A boy . . .
* * *
I will not tell Diane this. I think this is a decision that I have to
make myself (And there are ways that it can be done so that she will never
know. I know when the child was conceived and I know which drugs to take
beforehand. I will have to either replace Danny, or make him take the
injection, but she will never suspect.) My daughter will be a son.
* * *
Why do I keep coming back?
I get on her nerves, she gets on mine. We argue
about the little things; we make a point of fighting with
each other. Why?
Last night we were lying in bed, side by side, just lying there, not
doing anything, just listening to each other breathe and staring at the
ceiling. She said, "Danny?"
I said, "Yes?"
She said, "It's over, isn't it?"
I nodded. "Yes."
She turned to me then and slid her arms around me. Her cheeks were wet
too.
I held her tight. "I'm sorry," I said. "I wanted it to work so much."
She sniffed. "Me too."
We held on to each other for a long time. After a while I shifted my
position, then she shifted hers. She rolled over on her back and I slid on
top of her. She was so slender, so intense. We moved together in silence,
hearing only the sound of our breathing. We remembered and pretended, each
of us lost in our own thoughts, and wishing that it hadn't come to this.
The sheets were cool in the night and she was warm
and silky. If only it could be like this all the time. . . .
But it couldn't. It was over. We both knew it.
* * *
I'm not going back anymore.
Whatever there was between us is gone. We both know it. The bad moments
outweigh the good. There is no joy left.
Besides, she isn't there all the time anyway.
I have brought my son forward with me. I will find him a home in the
twentieth century. And I will watch over him. I will be very careful not to
accidentally excise him. He is all I have left.
It's not without regret that I do this. I miss my Diane terribly. But
something happened to us. The magic disappeared, the joy faded, and the
delight we had found in each other ceased to exist.
The last night... we made love mechanically, each seeking only our own
physical release. Somehow, my feelings had become more important to me than
hers. I wonder why?
Was it because I knew that I would never could never experience it from
her side? Perhaps. . . .
Love with Diane was . . . sad. I could see the me in her, but I could
never be that me.
And that meant that she wasn't really me. Not really. She was somebody
else.
I couldn't communicate with her. We used the same words, but our
meanings were different. (They must have been different. She wasn't me.)
I'm sorry, Diane. I wanted it to work. I did. But I couldn't reach you.
I couldn't reach you at all. So.
I'll go back to my Danny. He'll understand. He's been waiting patiently
for so long. . . .
* * *
Oh God, I feel alone.
* * *
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made .
Robert Browning
Rabbi Ben Ezra, from stanza 1
* * *
It's been years since I last added anything to this journal. I wonder
how old I am now. I really have no way of telling.
Forty? Fifty? Sixty? I'm not sure. The neo-procaine treatments I've
been taking in 2101 seem to retard all physical evidence of aging. I could
still be in my late thirties. But I doubt it. I've done so much. Seen so
much.
I've been living linearly semi-linearly. Instead of bouncing
haphazardly around time, I've set up a home in 1956, and as it travels
forward through time at its stately day-to-day pace, I am traveling with it.
Oh, I'm still using the future and the past, but not as before.
Before, I was young, foolish. I was like a barbarian at the banquet. I
gulped and guzzled; I ate without tasting. I rushed through each experience
like a tourist trying to see twenty-one European cities in two weeks and
enjoying none of them.
Now, I'm a gourmet. I savor each day. I taste the robustness of life,
but not so hurriedly as to lose its delicate overtones. I've given up the
hectic seventies for the quiet fifties the fifties are as early as I dare go
without sacrificing the cultural comforts I desire. They are truly a magic
moment in time, a teeterboard suspended between the wistful past and the
soaring future.
* * *
I have not abandoned the use of the timebelt. I use it for amusement.
(The lady who cut me off on the freeway this morning. She suddenly had four
flat tires.) And justice.
The man who walked into a schoolyard and started firing his rifle. He
thought he had cleaned it, but somehow a wad of wet modeling clay had been
jammed up the barrel. The gun exploded in his face. (I like that trick, I
use it a lot. There are an awful lot of exploding guns in the world.)
I read the news every day. I don't like seeing tragedies. I don't like
plane crashes and murders and kidnappings and bizarre accidents. So, they
don't happen anymore. I go and I see and I fix.
Planes that might have crashed get delayed for odd reasons. One of my
insurance companies watchdogs the airlines, demanding fixes of things that
might not be discovered until after a plane goes down.
Murderers and kidnappers disappear. Missing children are found.
Terrorists have their bombs blow up in their faces. Rapists never mind, you
don't want to know. Serial killers never get a chance to start. Devastating
building fires don't happen without warning. People who start accidental
forest fires get caught. Famous actors do not die in car crashes. Great rock
stars don't lose their talent to drugs. Sometimes it's tricky, but I like
the challenges. I like making things better. And I never leave any evidence.
I can't fix it all, but I do my part.
The odd thing is, I don't do it because I care. I can't
care. These people aren't real to me. They're pieces on
the playing board. I just do it because it satisfies my
sense of rightness.
Because it makes me feel a little bit more like a god to be doing
something useful.
And because I want my son to have a reason to respect me.
* * *
The fifties are a great time to live. They are close enough to the
nations adventurous past to still bear the same strident idealism, yet they
also bear the shape of the developing future and the promise of the
technological wonders to come. Transistor radios are still marvelous devices
and color television is a delicious miracle, but blue skies are commonplace
and the wind blows with a freshness from the north that hints at something
wild and suggests that the city is only a temporary illusion, a mirage
glowing against a western desert.
Brave highways crisscross the state and (I thank myself again) with a
minimum of billboards. The roads are still new; they are the foundation for
the great freeways of the future. This is the threshold of that era, but it
is still too soon for them to be overburdened with traffic and ugliness.
Driving is still an adventure.
The hills around Los Angeles are still uncut and
green with the city's own special color of vegetation. The
dark trees hover, the dry grass smell permeates the cool
days. The fifties are a peaceful time, a quiet sleeping
time between two noisy bursts of years, a blue and white
time filled with sweet yellow days, innocent music, and
bright popcorn memories . . .
* * *
It is 1961 as I write this. The fifties have ended and their magic is
fading quickly. A young President has stamped a new dream on the nation and
the frenetic stamp and click of the seventies can already be heard rustling
in the distance. The years are impatient; they tumble over each other like
children, each rushing eagerly for its turn and each in turn tumbling
inexorably into the black whirlpool of forevertime lost. Well, not forever
lost, not to me.
I have watched the fading of the fifties three times now, and perhaps I
shall return again for a fourth. Perhaps . . .
* * *
Last week, in a mood of wistfulness for times lost, I went jaunting
again. I went back to the past, to the house where Diane and I lived for
such a short, short, long time.
One of the walls had collapsed and the wind blew through the rooms. A
fine layer of clean, dry dust covered everything. The pillars and drapes
stood alone on the cold plain.
My own doing, of course. I had not come back far enough, but I was
afraid if I journeyed too far back, I would see her again.
And yet I do want to see her again.
Just a little bit farther back . . .
* * *
And this time, the house was not ruined. Just abandoned. It stood
alone, empty and waiting. My footsteps echoed hollowly across the marble
floors.
Was she here? Had she been here at all?
There was no way of knowing.
I found my way to her rooms. Despite the acrid sunlight, her chambers
were cold. I opened closets at random, pulled out drawers. Many of her silks
were still here. Forgotten? Or just discarded?
A shimmering dress, ice-cream pastel and deep forest-green I pressed my
nose into the sleek shining material, seeking a long-remembered smell, a
sweetlemony fragrance with an undertone of musk. The clean smell of a woman
. . .
Her smell is there, but faint. I dropped the dress. I am touched with
incredible sadness.
And then a sound, a step
I ran for the other room, calling.
Perhaps, perhaps, just a little bit farther back.
The day after the last day I was there. So many years ago . . .
* * *
The air conditioner hums. The house is alive again.
And my Diane is beautiful, even prettier than I remembered. Her auburn
hair shimmers in the sunlight. She moves with the grace of a goddess, and
she wears even less, a filmy thing of lace and silk. I can see the sweet
pinkness of her skin.
She hasn't seen me yet. I am here in the shadows, deep within the
house. It has been too long. It hurts too much to watch.
Abruptly, puzzlement clouds her face. She comes rushing in from the
patio. "Danny? Is that you?" Eagerness. "Are you back?"
And then she saw me.
"Danny? What's happened? Are you all right? You look" and then she
realized "old."
"Diane," I blurted. "I came back because I loved
you too much to stay away anymore."
She was too startled to answer. She dropped her eyes and whispered, "I
loved you too, Danny." Then she looked at me again. "But you're not Danny
anymore. You're someone else."
"But I am Danny " I insisted.
She shook her head. "You're not the same one."
I took a step forward. I reached as if to embrace her.
She took a quick step back. "No, please, don't."
"Diane, what's the matter?"
"Danny " There were tears running down her
cheeks. "Danny, why did you stay away so long? Look
what you've done to yourself. You've gotten old. You're
not my Danny anymore. You're you're not young." She
sniffled and wiped quickly. "I came back, Dan. I couldn't
stay away either. I came back to wait for you and hope
that you'd come back too. But look at you. You waited too
long to come back."
"Diane, you loved me once. I'm still me. I'm still
Danny. I have the same memories. Remember how you cried in my arms the
last night we were together? Remember how we used to fix dinner together in
the kitchen? Remember the "
"Stop. Oh, stop. Please " And suddenly she was in my arms. Crying. "I
loved you so much. So much. But you went away. How could you how could you
stay away so long? I thought you loved me too."
"Oh, sweetheart, yes. I did. I do. I love you too much. That's why I
came back " I held her tightly to me. She was so warm.
"But why not sooner? Why did you stay so long?"
"I was stupid. Forgive me. Let me be with you, please. That's all
that's important." My hands could feel the tender silkiness of her skin. I
remembered how I used to caress her and I slid into the motions almost
automatically. Her breasts were soft. Her hips were boyish. Her skin was so
smooth
"What are you doing?" She made as if to pull away.
"Oh, baby, baby, please "
"Oh, no not now, I couldn't. Please don't make
me."
"Diane, I still love you " The youthfulness of her body . . .
"Oh, no. It's only words. You're only saying them as if they're some,
kind of magic charm to get me into bed." She backed away, wiping at her
eyes. "I'm sorry, Danny, I really did love you, but I can't anymore. You've"
she hesitated here "changed. You're someone else. You don't really care
about me anymore, do you?" She grabbed a robe and pulled it about her. "No,
don't come any closer. Just listen a moment. There's a poem. It goes, 'Grow
old along with me, the best is yet to be, the last of life for which the
first was made . . .' I had thought hoped that was how it would be for us."
Her voice caught. "But you've ruined it. It only took you a day to destroy
both of our lives."
"No." I shook my head. "It didn't take a day. It took years. Diane, I'm
sorry! Couldn't we ... ?"
But she was gone. She had fled into the bedroom.
"Diane "
And then the gentle pop! of air rushing in to fill an empty space told
me how completely she was gone. How far she-had fled.
* * *
Oh God. What have I done?
I could try again. All I need to do is go back just a little earlier. I
wouldn't make the same mistake this time.
I want my Diane. I must have my Diane.
I will have my Diane.
* * *
He's tried to talk me out of it, but I'm not going to let him stop me.
I know why he wants to keep me from going back.
He's jealous of her. Because she'll have me and he won't.
But his way is wrong. I know that now. A man should have a woman. A
real man needs a real woman.
Diane, sweet Diane. Please don't reject me again. I'm not old. I'm not.
And you're so young . . .
* * *
Oh God, why?
Am I really that old and ugly?
No. I can't be. I can't be.
Do I dare go back and try again?
* * *
And again he tries to talk me out of it.
Damn him anyway!
* * *
Somewhere there is a Dan who is getting older and older. And he's
working his way back through time, chasing Diane.
And each time Diane is that much younger and he's that much older. The
gulf between them widens.
Oh, my poor, poor Dan. But he won't listen. He just won't listen.
I'm afraid to think of where he is heading. He'll work his way back
through all the days of Diane, and every day she'll reject him. And Dan,
poor Dan, he'll experience them all. Each time she rejects him will be the
last day she'll spend in the fading past. So every day he'll go back one
more day, and every day he'll be too old for her
Until he gets back to the very first day. And then she'll be gone.
There won't be any Diane at all. Just a memory.
And, in the end, he'll be there waiting for her even before the first
Danny. Waiting patiently for her first appearance, trying to re-create his
lost love. But she won't show up. No, she'll have warned herself. Don't go
back in time looking for a variant Diane. A grizzled old ghoul waits for
you. No, she'll never come back at all. Poor Dan. Poor, poor Dan.
* * *
And yet, the one I feel sorriest for is young Dan. He'll never know
what he's missing.
Because, when he gets there, there won't be anyone there at all.
He'll never have a Diane. Ever. Old Dan will have chased them all away.
* * *
I wish I could change it all. I wish I could.
But I can't.
Dammit.
Now I know what it's like to have an indelible past
one that can't be erased and changed at will. It's frustrating. It's
maddening. And it makes me wish I had been more careful and thoughtful.
But when you can erase your mistakes in a minute, you tend to get
careless.
Until you make one you can't erase.
I feel uneasy because I think I didn't try hard enough, and yet, I
can't think of anything I didn't do. I tried everything I could do to stop
old Danny.
But it wasn't enough, and now I'm left with the results of what he's
done.
We're all left with those results.
I could find young Danny in a minute, and I could warn him to go back
to Diane right away, before it's too late, before he gets too old; but it
wouldn't do any good. All he would find would be old Danny, sitting and
waiting. Sitting and waiting.
Diane is gone. Forever. There's no way we can reach her. Old Danny has
seen to that.
And there's no other place to look for her.
Any time. Any place. Any when that Diane might
have thought to visit, there's an old Danny. Sitting and
waiting.
I'll never see my Diane again.
(Can I content myself with Danny? My Danny? I'll
have to.)
* * *
And yet, I wonder . . .
Perhaps somewhere there is an older Diane, one who has aged like me. .
. .
I wonder how I might find her.
Ah, but that way lies old Danny and madness.
It's not the answer.
* * *
There is a party at my house, the big place in 1999.
A hundred and fifty-three acres of forest, lake, and meadow. I don't
know how many me's there are. The number varies.
The party is spread out across the whole summer. Several days in April
and May, quite a few in June and July, and also some in August. I think
there may be a few in September too. Generally it starts about ten in the
morning and lasts until I don't know when. It seems as if there's always a
constant number of Dans and Dons arriving and leaving.
It's like Grand Central Terminal, with passengers arriving and
departing all the time, to and from destinations all over the world. Only,
all the passengers are all me and all the destinations are the same place,
only years removed.
The younger Dans show up in May and June. They like the swimming and
water-skiing and motorcycling. They like the company of each other.
I prefer July. Most of the younger versions have faded by then. They're
too nervous for me and they remind me too much of Diane. They're too active,
I can't keep up with them, and sometimes I think they're talking on a
different plane. I prefer the men of July; they're more my age, they're more
comfortable, and they're more moderate. We still do a lot of swimming and
riding; I remember, I used to enjoy that very much; but most of the time we
just like to take it easy.
* * *
I don't like the men of August. I've been there a few times, and
they're too sedentary. No, they're too old. They just sit around and drink.
And talk. And drink some more. Some of them look positively wasted.
Actually, itТs the men of late August I really don't like. The men of
early August aren't that bad. It's just the old ones that bother me. Some of
them are filthy. Their minds, their mouths, their bodies. They want to touch
me too much. And they call me their Danny, their little boy. (Several of
them even seem senile.)
The men of early August are all right. They make
me a little uncomfortable, but lately I've been visiting
them more and more. Partly because it seems as if the
younger men are taking over July and partly because I'm
in August enough now to compensate for the older ones.
Several of them are very nice though. Very understanding. We've had
some interesting talks. (And that surprises me too that there are still
things I can talk about with myself. I had thought I would have exhausted
all subjects of conversation long ago. Apparently not.)
In the evenings we go indoors (there's a pool inside too) and listen to
music (I have several different listening rooms) or play poker, or
billiards, or chess.
When I get tired (and when I want to sleep alone), there's a chart on
the wall indicating which days and which beds are still unused. (The chart
covers a span of several years. Well, I have to sleep somewhere . . .) I
make a mark in any space still blank and that closes that date. Then I
bounce to that point in time. (Generally I try and use those days in serial
order. I have servants in the house then and it wouldn't do to confuse
them.)
I'm still doing most of my living in the fifties, but when I'm in the
mood for a party and that's been more and more lately I know where to find
one. The poker games, for instance, are marathons. Or maybe it's only one
poker game that's been going on since the party started. Whenever I get
tired and want to quit, there's always a later me waiting for the seat.
But my endurance isn't what it used to be. I get tired too fast these
days. That's why I find the men of August so restful.
* * *
On August 13 a very strange thing happens. Has happened. Will happen.
I'd known about it for some time that is, I'd known that something
happens, because I don't attend the party linearly. I stay in a range of a
week or two and bounce around within it. There's more variety that way.
After August 13 the mood of the party is changed. Subdued. Almost
morbid. Most of me seem to know why, but they don't refer to it very often.
The last time something like this happened was just before I met Diane
when all the other versio