“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?
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 recreate 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 time when you could still buy privacy. 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 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, it’s 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 ear
ly 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 eighties, 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 versions of me had disappeared. I knew something was about to happen, but I didn’t know what until I got there.
I have that same kind of feeling now. Too many of the older me’s are acting strange. Very strange. The more I hang around them, the more I see it.
I’m going to have to investigate August 13.
Is this it?
Three or four of the youngest Dannys are here. They’re in a quieter mood than usual though, almost grim.
A couple of us frowned at them—they really weren’t welcome here; they should have stayed in their own part of the party; but most of the rest of us tried at least to tolerate them, hoping that they would lose interest soon and go back to their own time. “They’re here to gape at us,” complained one of me.
“Well, some of us are gaping right back,” snapped another.
“God,” whispered a third. “Were we ever really that young?”
And then there was a pop! as another me appeared. It was a common enough sound. Somebody was always appearing or disappearing at any given moment. But this one was different. A hush fell over the room. I turned and saw two of me reaching to support a third who had suddenly appeared between them. He was pale and gray. He was half-slumped and holding his heart.
Apparently the jump-shock had been too much for him; that sudden burst of temporal energy that jolts you sharply every time you bounce through time. They helped him to a chair. Somebody was already there with a glass of water, somebody who had been through this before, I guess. And the younger Dans were murmuring among themselves; was this what they had come to see?
“Are you all right, old fellow?” someone asked the newcomer.
He grunted. He was old. He was very old. His hands were thin and weak. His forearms were parchment-covered bones, so were his legs. The skin of his face hung in folds and he was mottled with liver spots.
“Aaah,” he gasped. “What day is it?”
“August 13.”
“Thirteenth?” Slowly he pulled his features into a grimace. “Then I’m too soon. It’s the twenty-third I want. I must have made the wrong setting.”
“Take it easy. Just relax.”
The oldster did so. It wasn’t a matter of recognizing the wisdom of their words; he simply knew that he didn’t have to hurry. A timebelt is a very forgiving device. Besides, he was too exhausted to move.
“What were you looking for?” asked one of the younger Dans. (They weren’t me. I didn’t remember ever having done this before, so they must have been variations from another timeline.)
The fragile gray man peered at them, abruptly frowning. “No,” he croaked. “Too young. Too young. Got to talk to someone older. Those are ju st—just children.”
Some of us shouldered the younger ones aside then. “What is it?” they asked. (Others hung back; had they heard it before? The room seemed emptier now. There were less than ten of me remaining. Several of us had left.)
“Too tired,” he gasped. “Came to warn you, but I’m too tired to talk. Let me rest. . . . ”
“Hey, have a heart, you guys. Don’t press him.” That was one of the quieter ones of us. I recognized him by his business suit, he had been hanging back and just watching most of the evening. “Take him in the bedroom and let him lie down for a while.” He shoved through and picked up the frail old man—God, was he that light?—and carried him off to the downstairs bedroom. “You can talk to him later,” he promised.
Out of curiosity, I followed. I helped him put the old man to bed, then he led me out. “You know what’s going on, don’t you?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer, just got himself a chair and a book, and stationed himself in front of the door. “It might be too soon for you to worry about this,” he said to me. “Why don’t you go back to your party?” He opened the book and proceeded to ignore me.
There was nothing else to do, so I shrugged and went back into the other room. A little later a couple of other me’s tried to see how the old man was doing, but the business-suit me wouldn’t let them. He sat outside that room all night.
The party was considerably dampened by this incident. Most of the Dans faded away and the house became strangely deserted. Here and there, one or two of me were picking up dirty glasses and empty potato-chip dishes, but they only served to heighten the emptiness. They were like caretakers in a mausoleum.
I bounced forward to the morning, but the bedroom was empty and the business suit was gone too.
So I bounced back an hour. Then another. This time he was there, still outside the door, still reading. When I appeared, he glanced up without interest. “Hmm? Is it that late already?” He opened his belt to check the time.
I started to ask him something, but he cut me off. “Wait a minute.” He was resetting his belt. Before I could stop him he had tapped it twice and vanished.
I opened the bedroom door; the old man had vanished too.
My curiosity was too much. I bounced back fifteen minutes. Then fifteen minutes more. He was sleeping quietly on the bed. His breath rasped slowly in and out.
I felt no guilt as I woke him; he’d had more than six hours undisturbed. I wanted to know what was so important. He came awake suddenly.
“Where am I?” he demanded.
“August fourteenth,” I told him.
That seemed to satisfy him, but he frowned at me in suspicion. “What do you want? Why’d you wake me?”
“What was supposed to happen last night?
“Last night?”
“The thirteenth. You came to warn us of something….” I prompted.
“The thirteenth? That was a mistake. I wanted the twenty-third.”
“Why? What happens on the twenty-third?”
He peered at me again. “You’re too young.” He pushed himself off the bed and stood unsteadily. And tapped his belt and vanished.
Damn.
Naturally, I went straight to the twenty
-third.
My old man was there, of course. A dozen times over. Wrinkled, gnarled, and white. Their hands hovered in the air, or scrabbled across their laps like spiders. They clawed, they plucked.
But not all of them were that old. There were one or two that even looked familiar.
“Don?” I asked one who was wearing a faded shirt. If I remembered correctly, he had gotten that ketchup stain on it just a few hours ago at the poker table of the thirteenth.
He looked at me, startled. “Dan? You shouldn’t be here. You’re still too young. I mean, let us take care of this for now. You go back to the party.”
“Huh?” I tried to draw him aside. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t,” he whispered. “It wouldn’t be a good idea—”
Abruptly, a familiar business suit was standing before us. Was it the same one? Probably. “I’ll take over,” he said to Don.
“Thanks,” Don said, and fled in relief.
I looked at the other. “What’s going on here?”
He looked at the clock in this timebelt. “In a few more minutes you’ll find out.” He took me by the arm and led me across the room. “Stand here. I’ll stay right by you the whole time. Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Just watch, this time around.”
I shut my mouth and watched.
The air in the room was heavy. The few conversations still going on were the merest of whispers. The supposedly silent hum of the air conditioner was deafening. Almost all of these wrinkled faces, pale faces, were deathly. The few tan ones stood out like spotlights. They were grim too.
The Man Who Folded Himself Page 12
