“Go on,” I prompted, patient as a good teacher, but what I really wanted to tell you was stop. I wanted to say that all that was behind you, now that we were together.
“I’m sorry,” you said. You seemed perplexed. “I’m sorry, but I think I don’t want to. It’s difficult for me to describe her.”
I felt you had a right to your silence. “I won’t ask again,” I said, and as soon as I made that promise you returned your hand to my own. We walked home in that manner together.
At the end of the weekend, you stayed. I found you that administrative position in the math department. You were capable and adept; I admired the way you picked up new skills. The way you seemed to forge straight ahead. The next fall, you enrolled in English classes, and in the winter we married.
At the end of the day, we returned to each other. You cooked dinner and I washed the dishes. We consolidated our lives. I was surprised by how simple it was: the ease with which we lived together, the comfort of your welcoming kiss, the way you twirled slowly as I helped you out of your coat. At night, we went out for long walks, leaving footprints that were later erased. I told you about my ideas for computers; you told me about the diaries you’d discovered, gathering dust in the library stacks.
Made strong by our marriage, I thrived in my studies. It was a time of great discovery; the lab had the feel of a frontier town. We all rushed there with our coffees, bursting with ideas about code. I was developing the concept of conversational programming, building a toolbox for text analysis and decomposition of sentences. Before I’d even earned my diploma, I received the invitation from MIT.
We moved to Boston. We bought our house, close to the river. We decorated it well. We adopted our cat. I taught in the electrical engineering department; you started a graduate program. We chose not to have children. The diary remained in your top drawer.
Sometimes, in the crowded plaza outside my office, where hurrying students kicked up clouds of pigeons, I remembered the birds in the Signal Depot. Three of them, preening their purple feathers, waiting to go home. Then I wondered how much of yourself you were still sending back. I wondered, but never asked, and we lived a long time together like that.
Oh, Ruth. What’s the point of recalling all this? I’m trying to impress you with how much I remember, but you’re not even listening. What’s a marriage but a long conversation, and you’ve chosen to converse only with MARY.
I’m done remembering for the night. In the silence of this empty house, there’s nothing to do but distract myself by organizing the events of my day. This day, now, this very instant. My student and I, walking home from the protests. She in her corduroy pants, hair long and gold in the sunlight.
It’s an intriguing sensation, getting touched by someone so new. Getting kissed by a stranger. It jolts you into a new kind of awareness. Do I sound like a desperate old man? Maybe I am. It’s been some time since you let me close. How much longer can this distance last before one of us seeks solace in a new touch?
“One of us.” Listen to me tricking myself. You’ve already sought comfort in MARY. If one of us needs solace now, it’s me.
Come home, Ruth. Come home before I forget why we married each other.
(5) The Diary of Mary Bradford
1663
ed. Ruth Dettman
7th. Calm, deadly, as if the tempest had never existed. Our vessel battered, sails shredded and much water taken. Stop, hand. Why write such words? Ralph gone.
8th. Foul words. Ralph gone. It being so, why write? What good could come? Ralph gone.
Empty words. Cannot conjure him back. Why continue to write, and Ralph’s body absent? Ruff, rib cage, white blaze, and all this already over. Swept to sea during storm, him being unable to swim. Even in fish pond, unable to stay above water. How long ago now, when Ralph slipped on the bank of our pond and, being dragged down by the current, wanted help to get back on land? Unable to swim even there, and then so much less alone than now in this endless ocean.
Was I who brought him here, locked in my wedding chest. I who opened my cabin door, to see after parents in attitude of repentance. Too-loyal Ralph roused himself and lunged in my wake, but there being then a waist-high rush of water he was swept up, and only his nose out of the flood. And then nothing, and Ralph no longer with us.
10th. Whole world moves forwards. Unthinkable cruelty, to progress without Ralph. Sails mended, ropes bound, new coat of tar. Fresh breeze, good for passage of ship. Passengers stroll in open air, relieved to be out after storm. Seamen hum at their work. Only to see how the world makes nothing of the memory of a creature, so recently living! For only days ago he ran to all of them, and jumped on their knees, and gave them his love. And indeed, I am heartless as well. Betimes my grief is real, and takes me whole in its clutch, but yet there be moments I pass with little sorrow, only a dim awareness of something not as it once was. God forgive me my hardness of heart.
10th. Later. This morning to breakfast, and decided then to write these pages in recollection of Ralph, to ensure I cannot forget him. His body, that remained here for me when all else was lost. The comfort of leaning my head on his belly, and it being warm, and moving up and down with his breath. His bark, or his ruff when running over the meadow.
But all this is self-pity. Pray to God to remember my sorrow is unimportant. Only Ralph’s absence remains important. His loss of a loved world: rabbits, sheep, meadows, and myself, being his companion.
11th. On deck, have found a place that is my own, amongst old coils of rope. From there, spend hours gazing from whence we have come. Hope, sometimes, to see nose of Ralph, proceeding towards ship. Know that this is thinking in error, but cannot stop staring. My fault that Ralph was aboard. Now, what? Write to his spirit? Keep vigil over the sea? All hopeless, naive. But cannot force myself to stop looking.
12th. Have been delivered sermon by father, in general speaking that it be impious to cherish mortal coil too much. All creatures pass. Distraction (he says) from human duties, for me to mourn so much for a dog. Thought to quote to him from Proverbs, for “a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.” And yet, according to father, though decent enough not to say so directly: Ralph soulless. Not permitted entrance to Heaven. And then what, for Ralph? Is there anything we can hope for? Have not spoken to father since sermon.
13th. Morning. Remained abed until entrance of mother, who came bearing lectures. Showed her my teeth, as Ralph might have done to a snake. Mother left in huff of impatience. Alone, attempted to make myself decent, but that seeming very little important. Cannot remember last combing my hair, and now it is become very bad. Then resumed solitude on deck, in seat amongst cases. Towards late afternoon, and the water being lacquered and the sun sinking, the sea became dark, and then the color of fire. Ship cut through an ocean of flames, and our wake streaming always behind us. Sails full. Full on ahead, as if leaving nothing behind. Endless water, unbroken. Think sometimes of diving in, swimming as far as I could back towards home.
Before going below to my cabin, and walking with my head down through violet evening, did find amongst tangled rigging a seaman’s misplaced pocketknife. Slipped it into my pocket. Carried it with me to bed.