The Man Who Folded Himself (20 page)

The twentieth century is a great time to live. It is close enough to the nation's adventurous past to still bear an astonishing idealism, yet these same strange years also hold a sense of promise. You can almost taste the eagerness for the wonders to come. Transistor radios are marvelous devices and color television is a delicious miracle, blue skies are commonplace, and the wind blows with a freshness from the north that hints at something wild—suggesting again that the city is only a temporary illusion, a mirage glowing against a western desert.

Brave new 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 uncut and gold with the city's own special color of vegetation. The dark trees hover, the smell of dry grass permeates the cool days. The century is a tumble of easy days, a blue-and-white time filled with sweet yellow days, innocent music, and bright popcorn memories—slow peaceful seasons, abruptly punctuated by bursts of noise and emotion, anxiety and
impatience. The seasons turn and return. The years tumble over each other like children, each rushing eagerly for its turn—and each in turn tumbling inexorably into the black whirlpool of forever time lost. Well, not forever lost, not to me.

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 longremembered smell, a sweet-lemony 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 any more. 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 has 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?