Here’s another thing Idoknow. The past is obdurate for the same reason a turtle’s shell is obdurate: because the living flesh inside is tender and defenseless.
And something else. The multiple choices and possibilities of daily life are the music we dance to. They are like strings on a guitar. Strum them and you create a pleasing sound. A harmonic. But then start adding strings. Ten strings, a hundred strings, a thousand, a million. Because they multiply! Harry didn’t know what that watery ripping sound was, but I’m pretty sure I do; that’s the sound of too much harmony created by too many strings.
Sing high C in a voice that’s loud enough and true enough and you can shatter fine crystal. Play the right harmonic notes through your stereo loud enough and you can shatter window glass. It follows (to me, at least) that if you put enough strings on time’s instrument, you can shatter reality.
But the reset isalmostcomplete each time. Sure, it leaves a residue. The Ocher Card Man said so, and I believe him. But if I don’t make anybigchanges… if I do nothing but go to Jodie and meet Sadie again for the first time… if we should happen to fall in love…
I want that to happen, and think it probably would. Blood calls to blood, heart calls to heart. She’ll want children. So, for that matter, will I. I tell myself one child more or less won’t make any difference, either. Or notmuchdifference. Or two. Even three. (It is, after all The Era of Big Families.) We’ll live quietly. We won’t make waves.
Only each child is a wave.
Every breath we take is a wave.
You have to go back one last time,the Ocher Card Man said.You have to close the circle. Want has nothing to do with it.
Can I really be thinking of risking the world—perhaps reality itself—for the woman I love? That makes Lee’s insanity look piddling.
The man with the card tucked into the brim of his hat is waiting for me beside the drying shed. I can feel him there. Maybe he’snot sending out thought-waves, but it sure feels like it.Come back. You don’t have to be the Jimla. It’s not too late to be Jake again. To be the good guy, the good angel. Never mind saving the president; save the world. Do it while there’s still time.
Yes.
I will.
ProbablyI will.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be soon enough, won’t it?
10/1/58
Still here at the Tamarack. Still writing.
My uncertainty about Clayton is the worst. Clayton is what I thought about as I screwed the last of my refills into my trusty fountain pen, and he’s what I’m thinking about now. If I knew she was going to be safe from him, I think I could let go. Will John Clayton still turn up at Sadie’s house on Bee Tree Lane if I subtract myself from the equation? Maybe seeing us together was what finally drove him over the edge. But he followed her to Texas evenbeforehe knew about us, and if he does it again, this time he might cut her throat instead of her cheek. Deke and I wouldn’t be there to stop him, certainly.
Only maybe hedidknow about us. Sadie might have written a friend back in Savannah, and the friend might have told a friend, and the news that Sadie was spending time with a guy—one who didn’t know the imperatives of the broom—might finally have gotten back to her ex. If none of that happened because I wasn’t there, Sadie would be all right.
The lady or the tiger?
I don’t know, I don’t know.
The weather is turning toward autumn.
10/6/58
I went to the drive-in last night. It’s the last weekend for them. On Monday they’ll put up a sign that says CLOSED FOR THESEASON and add something like TWICE AS FINE IN ’59! The last program consisted of two short subjects, a Bugs Bunny cartoon, and another pair of horror movies,MacabreandThe Tingler.I took my usual folding chair and watchedMacabrewithout really seeing it. I was cold. I have money to buy a coat, but now I’m afraid to buy much of anything. I keep thinking about the changes it could cause.
When the first feature ended, I did go into the snackbar, however. I wanted some hot coffee. (ThinkingThis can’t change much,also thinkingHow do you know.) When I came out, there was only one child in the kiddie playground that would have been full at intermission only a month ago. It was a girl wearing a jean jacket and bright red pants. She was jumping rope. She looked like Rosette Templeton.
“I went down the road, the road was a-muddy,” she chanted. “I stubbed my toe, my toe was a-bloody. You all here? Counttwoanthreeanfourandfi’! My true love’s abutterfly!”
I couldn’t stay. I was shivering too hard.
Maybe poets can kill the world for love, but not ordinary little guys like me. Tomorrow, supposing the rabbit-hole is still there, I’m going back. But before I do…
Coffee wasn’t the only thing I bought in the snackbar.
10/7/58
