On my first leave of absence I took the bus to Philadelphia. It was spring, and the fields were just turning green. The Amish were out in their buggies, trailing reflective triangles; their horses shook their heads in the reins. The road rose and fell over the hills like so many large loaves of green bread, but it was the city I wanted to see: its cobblestone streets, its narrow buildings. I’d read about particular sights: the Mütter Museum, the Schuylkill River, and the Philadelphia Signal Depot, where they manufactured the barometers and sensors I used at the station. I’d heard from the station chief that, at this particular Depot, they still trained pigeons for use in the war. Sometimes, falling asleep in my narrow army bunk, I imagined the Depot: a great warehouse of telescope crystals and messenger birds, tiny radios and thousands of nests. Every instrument I looked through bore the same name carved in miniature letters: PHILADELPHIA SIGNAL DEPOT. A constant refrain. As if that were the place for me to return to.
After the bus dropped me off, I headed east on Market Street, and as I walked, the city aged. It seemed as if I were walking backward in time. Department stores and thoroughfares disappeared behind me, replaced with colonial houses and miniature streets. When I found the address of my boardinghouse, I was in a different era completely.
First thing in the morning, I traveled by bus to the Depot. I arrived full of excitement, but the dream I’d had of the place was all wrong. It was a drafty building, stranded in a sea of concrete. Workers labored under rows of flickering lights. There were high school students inspecting radios, war prisoners stocking supplies. The roof leaked; there were puddles of water on the floor in the secretarial office. The pigeon unit had only three birds, and the unit head was discouraged; his two favorite birds had escaped, some act of vandalism committed at night.
When I left the pigeons behind me, my throat was tightening uncomfortably. I went in search of a water fountain and that was where I found you, wiping your mouth with the back of your wrist. Your dark eyes blinking behind spectacles. One strand of dark hair plastered to your cheek by water from the fountain, the blue veins showing on the underside of your wrist, a signal map, transporting code.
You think I don’t remember things? If only I could communicate how clearly I recall seeing you in that hallway for the first time. Knowing I had arrived. As if, after wandering for a long time, I had finally come home.
How painful it is, to remember that, when now you sit beside me, trying to ignore my intrusive presence. This is the price of remembering things! It almost seems unfair. The two of us, encrusted with our resentment, should leave those young people in peace. One ought not to leer at young lovers. I could propose a thesis along the lines that true love is impossible under conditions of surveillance, but then I’d be waxing oppressively political and this isn’t an account to impress my young hippies.
Let’s give them some time to themselves. Why not just exist in this house? But then, of course, we still have this silence to live with. Even if I banish those ghosts, you’re still ignoring me, and I’m still sitting uselessly here, tainted by the smell of grass and convictions, scents of a war you refuse to acknowledge. We’re moving in two different directions. I wish you’d help me understand. I wish I’d never created that program; I’d rather not contribute to the enhancement of armies. Even for you, Ruth, curled in your chair, the person I finally came home to.
(5) The Diary of Mary Bradford
1663
ed. Ruth Dettman
30th. Night, and the last day of the month. Foul weather. Choppy seas, dark skies. Ralph very sick. Vomited twice more this morning. Have been reading to him from The Caelestiall Orbes. Have now an increased understanding of the Copernican system, it being a startling fearful new science. Earth no longer fixed, as was previously thought to be true; instead, earth moves in circles through heavens. Loss of place in universe, and no crystal spheres. No center. No fixed order of planets. Only perpetual motion. Sun fixed, possibly, but everything else spinning about. Constant circling, and our earth a great ship that shall never arrive.
Above, great unhealthy gales, and there being occasional shouts, seamen crying out to each other. Each voice isolated from whatever reply. Planet unmoored. Must cling to Ralph, if we are to eternally spin, battered by winds, in firmament that is liquid and black, and knowing that we were once home but never will be again.
May 1st. Storm rages. There is a chance that ship shall be lost.
I remain in my cabin, full of compunction for sins. Have been contumacious daughter to troubled father, dishonest in all wedding vows, and conceited and overweening with servants. Have indulged in self-pity. Have scorned mother who bore me. Do not remember that ever my heart was so apprehensive of parents’ well-being. Have fear upon me that I should scarce see them again.
Whole ship shakes. Seems likely to be torn to shreds by the waves, each rib scattered over the ocean. Only wish to make my amends. Have attempted to venture out to parents’ cabin, but immediately stumbled. Hallway unfolds at unhealthy angle and seethes with black sluicing streams. Fallen, did slide downwards along hallway, and the ceiling tilting at me so I grasped at doors as I passed them. Might have slid down the stairs and so perhaps out to sea had I not encountered ship’s boy, who seems to have been keeping watch. Called himself E. Watts. Him helping me right myself, and I, cringing in shame for such weakness, was assisted back to my door. Enjoined to keep my cabin, it being not safe to move about. Commanded to look after my dog.
Am therefore forced to harbor remorse until after tempest has settled. Great desire for public confession, though God help me if this make me impious. Have little desire to confess sins in private, for God must know my deepest remorse. A different matter entirely if father should be swept out to sea, and him still unknowing my gratitude and affection.
In want of comfort, have been reading my Bible. Ralph listens, and his ears shifting. In truth, admit to finding little comfort in Bible, there being such a great number of tempests. Paul alone exposed to not one but three near-fatal shipwrecks. Seems ill-advised for him to have set sail after the second. First time not his fault. Second and subsequent were, he being not a lucky man on the ocean. Many biblical people lost to violent seas, except Paul. All die but Paul, who continues to adventure.
Understand, at this point, awful affliction of dying at sea. Nothing stable remaining, and then to be left behind unremembered. Can now comprehend Shakespeare’s Gonzalo. Now I would give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground. I would die a dry death.
2nd. Have passed a most wretched night, and our cabin black as a tomb. Slept only in fits, woken by a great shuddering crack, and the sound of cries and lashed rigging. Ralph whines, covers nose with both paws. Does not like to show me his face, it being I who brought him from safety to this place of stern judgment.
I have made terrible errors. Have been intemperate, cruel to my parents, greedy for things too much beloved. Did not acknowledge E. Watts until he had saved me from gales. Have wanted too much to return, and erred, methinks, most gravely in bringing Ralph here, to this cabin in the whale’s belly.
3rd, methinks, though no longer certain. Still we are threatened with shipwreck. Have seen no one but Watts, and just now my husband, him having labored out through bad weather, bringing sustenance to our cabin. Stood at our threshold, but would not come in uninvited. Author took from him hardtack, salt horse, some cheese, and a large flask. Brine nearly up to his knees. Had thanked him, and was thinking to ask him in, for we have spent these days exceeding alone, but noticed him looking strangely at Ralph. Did then remember old anger, and unhappy wedding, and Whittier speaking ill of mere beasts. Supplied him then a haughty expression that did send him away.