Thoreau in Love (28 page)

“We shall talk about this again,” said William.

“There’s no need,” said Henry. “I won’t do it. And if you don’t like it, send me back to Concord.” With that, Henry stormed out, saying, “I’m going out.” After an hour-long walk in the chilly moonlighted night, Henry returned, his anger spent, and climbed the stairs to his attic aerie, where he flopped down on his bed and fell fast asleep.

Walking to the woods the following afternoon, Henry became convinced the reason William wanted him in Staten Island was not so much to tutor his children as to show someone from Concord that he, William, was as illustrious as his illustrious brother. Of course, what William didn’t get was that Waldo never flaunted his fame, that if you didn’t know of his reputation, you would never guess at it by being with him, whereas William, the county judge, wore his judgeship on his sleeve and would have everyone think he was a supreme court jurist.

The forest floor was a soft carpet of cedar needles, and as Henry ventured farther into the woods, past one thick trunk after another, he wondered, Was I as jealous of John as William is of Waldo? John was devoted to me. Only in John’s eyes could I do no wrong. But John was the one everyone loved, and I saw that every day. Henry ran his left hand along a towering rock shaped like a massive parallelogram. “What happened when John fell for Ellen?” He sucked in the cedar scent, continued running his hand around the sharp corner of the detritus of the ice age. “I didn’t care a wit for Ellen until John fell for her.” Looking up to the barely inclined top of the rock, he wondered if he could climb to it. Shards of afternoon light pierced the monumental cedars, mottling the rock and the forest floor. “Her brother was who I cared about. My every thought was about Edmund. Where is Edmund? When is he coming? What is he doing? And yet, I became incredibly jealous of John’s love for Ellen.” He continued deeper into the forest. The scent of cedar was intoxicating. “Did I win her heart because I hated that he was once more doing what I couldn’t? Or did I do it to show how little Ellen truly loved him?”

In a clearing he turned a tight circle, quicker and quicker, until he was spinning, his arms flying out, and collapsed from dizziness onto the soft pile of the forest floor, giggling as his stomach tried to right itself. “I did do that, didn’t I?” he said to the trees. “I won Ellen to show how little she cared for John.” He sat up, too dizzy to lift his head. “Don’t lie to yourself, Henry. You did it so she wouldn’t take John away. You’re worse than William, Henry Thoreau. You acted out of spite.”

Henry arrived home to find Haven burning with fever. Terrified, thinking of little Waldo, he sat with Susan and the boy in silence. After a time, not realizing how upset he was, he instead put his fear on Susan and asked with an edge if she was all right.

“I’m fine, Henry. And so is Haven. It’s just fever. Not scarlet. No need to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” he said, though he immediately knew he was lying.

That evening and the next morning, before tutoring Willie and Mary, his most enthusiastic student, Henry worked on “A Winter Walk.” And came to realize, from the drawings and notes in his journal, that an ice crystal and a leaf have the same designs and properties, though the ice crystal’s life is even more fleeting than a leaf’s. “Could it be that all of nature follows one, unified law? My Lord, what if that’s true? Wouldn’t that prove that we are all one?”

That afternoon, Haven’s fever broke, and Henry, relieved, sat at his desk and looked out the window. Where the downed branches of the elm had stuck into the ground, new shoots grew, the old tree struggling to live. Urged on by the example of the struggling elm, Henry worked all afternoon, and again after supper, continuing into the night until he finished his winter walk.

“Before the summer solstice, no less,” he said as he let go his pen, pleased with what he’d done. He decided that the following day he would venture into the city to see Bea, his new muse, and try to sell his “Winter Walk.” The night was warm and humid, and as he gazed out the open window at the way the moon shadows played on the downed elm, he said quietly, “Maybe
New Mirror
. Or Greeley’s
Tribune
.” He leaned back in his chair and, breaking into a satirical smile, wondered if he should even bother sending a copy to Waldo.

He went to bed extremely satisfied, but awoke in a feverish, thrashing sweat a few hours later with a cold breeze blowing in the open window. He closed the window and pulled the covers over him, but chills kept running up and down his spine. And then the dream that woke him came into focus.

Henry was walking with Bea, but in Concord, in front of the family’s house, when Ben appeared. Henry introduced Bea as his intended. Ben smirked, looked him up and down as if he were insane, burst out laughing and said, “What are you doing? Henry? Really. What exactly do you think you’re doing? You want to be with me.”

“Yes, I do,” said Henry.

“But Henry, you can’t be with her and with me. You know that, don’t you? Henry? Don’t you know, you’re in love with me.”

Henry sat up in his bed, pulled his knees to his chest. “Is my life a total lie? What am I thinking? How can I do this?” He pulled the covers around him. “I am in love with Ben. I don’t have urges for Beatrice. I do have urges for Ben.” For a few moments Henry sat in the glow of his urges, then he said, “That’s it, isn’t it?” He took out his journal. “The rude truth, Henry,” he said, and wrote:

My time with Ben is all I think about. Yes, even when I was with Beatrice all I thought about was Ben: wishing Ben and I were walking the Richmond road; wishing Ben and I were drinking tea, Ben and I in Bea’s four-in-hand. Lord, if it had been Ben, I would have grabbed him for dear life. And held him tight the entire ride. When I think of Manhattan, it’s not Beatrice I want beside me, but Ben
.

“But what can I do? I’m in Staten Island, Ben’s at sea.” He lay back in bed, but he knew with his mind whirling so, there was only one way he would get to sleep. He thought of Edmund, as he had for so many nights for years, but then, as he reached for his hard tree, Ben’s image pushed Edmund’s aside, and he replayed their moments together, from first sight, Ben’s smile, his daggers of soft hair, through their every moment together on deck, their time sharing a bunk to keep warm. Shallow breaths, in, out, hand pumping. Don’t let the bed squeak. Fog . . . climbing . . . crow’s nest . . . kiss. Oh God. Tensed . . . breath held . . . oooohh . . . ooooh . . . breath out . . . relaxation. And sleep.

Henry woke just after dawn the next morning, feeling a confidence he hadn’t had since he was on
Dahlia
. He sat at his desk and read over “A Winter Walk.” Surprisingly satisfied, he went down for breakfast, and unknowingly opened the floodgates of anger when he casually mentioned that he wanted to go across to Manhattan, to deliver his work, and to explore the island more, especially the poorer sections. Torrents of murky bile poured from Mrs. William Emerson’s mouth. “Why anyone would want to go to that fever-ridden, stinking place, that putrid, dangerous, sinful gateway to hell I can’t imagine.” Henry sat quietly, amazed at what had happened to the formerly free-thinking Susan, who so recently bemoaned the fact that this Staten Island was not anything like the glorious Manhattan. Henry instinctively looked to Mr. Emerson for help—but got none. Mrs. Emerson went on. And soon came to the reason for her venom. “It’s those Irish. They’ve ruined a perfectly fine city. They’re all Catholics, you know. And now their Archbishop Hughes doesn’t want the Bible taught in public schools. Says it’s against their religion. Tells those Irish they’re Catholics first, Americans second. Can you imagine?” After excoriating the Catholics for nearly all the ills of the world, Mrs. Emerson revealed the horrors of “those Jewish people and all those woolly headed apes.”

The master of the long house looked on with sacrosanct smugness as his faithful wife expectorated more bile. Henry sat, quietly stunned. “And all the sin. I honestly don’t understand why God doesn’t smite it in a rain of fire or flood or quake or pestilence.” She took a breath. Then another, more calmed breath. “I think you should make a point of going to a decent church before you go off to Manhattan.”

Henry bit hard on his lower lip and made as much of a frown as he could to keep from laughing in her face. Church, thought Henry, that’s what she was getting at the whole time. When he was finally sure he wouldn’t laugh, he said, “But I did go to church.”

“Not that church.”

Realizing he had to settle this matter once and for all, he said simply, “I thought I might actually find solace at St. John’s, and a reason for going to church, but I didn’t. I’m through going to church.”

Mr. Emerson told the children to leave the room.

Henry couldn’t resist. “Lord knows we don’t want the children to hear anything that might make them think.”

Mr. Emerson ignored him. “Go on, dear.” Henry looked over at Susan, and quietly cheered her, thinking, You can do it, Susan. You can stand up to this bully.

Mrs. Emerson stared down at her cold porridge.

This was a test of their relationship: Would Susan be able to carry out the moral imperatives of her dear husband? Would Mr. Emerson have to scold her again for being so lax? And there was Henry, smirking, waiting for the plot to unfold. “Go on, Dear.”

But Dear didn’t go on, so Henry said, “How many times have I told you, I don’t go to church.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Emerson, pulling herself up. “You did tell us that. But, you’re working for us, and the morals of our children are in your hands.”

“Have I done anything to pollute the morals of your children?”

“Henry,” said Mr. Emerson. “Don’t play games with us. While you’re in our employ, and you are, at least for this year, you will go to church. That’s all there is to it.”

“Do you know anything about Transcendentalism?”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Just so you know, the last time I went to a proper church, as you call it, well, you know how I talk to myself, whistle without realizing I’m whistling, sing songs I don’t know I’m singing. I do all of that at church, and snicker, and laugh aloud when the minister says something I think is absurd, which is most of the time. So, think about what you’re asking, and what you’ll get.” The Emersons were silent. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.” And with that, Henry got up and went out the back door. After he’d calmed down, he returned to the Snuggery and taught lessons, then went up to his room and lay on his bed. A lovely breeze blew over him, a beautiful June in full flower. Birds chirped, cows lowed and horses clomped by on the Richmond road. It was a heavenly day, but Henry’s lethargy kept him from even lifting himself to his elbows. He fell asleep but woke a few minutes later. The day washed over him, and he thought of his “Winter Walk.”

“I’m not going to let them break me.” He wiped his eyes, breathed deeply and sat up. “It’s your life, Henry, not theirs. The choice is yours.”

In a burst of excitement he set off down the Richmond road, his “Winter Walk” and letter of introduction from Waldo in pocket. The bounty of the day kept up his spirits until he took his seat on the ferry, when he sank into wondering why he was bothering. But then the steam rose, and with it his spirits, and there were so many sail ships and steam vessels in the harbor that had come from all over the world just to be in New York. And Henry thought, Why not me?

As they approached Manhattan, Henry saw church spires behind the palisade of masts, yet he was sure there was no God in Manhattan. His stomach turned to butterflies. Will the Harper Brothers accept my offering? Could Ben be here? “Stop,” he said, and smiled at the woman who gave him an icy look, obviously thinking he’d spoke to her.

Up the gangplank he climbed and headed north on Pearl to Fulton, where to his delight he was greeted by fifteen or twenty cows—Cows! being herded by a collie pup and a comely and callipygian youth who said the cows weren’t from a ship but were individually or in twos kept in the backyards of the houses and that he was taking them over to Broad Way and up to the sheep meadow for their daily grazing. Talking with that attractive young man calmed Henry’s butterflies, so for a bit he accompanied the youth and his herd through the whirligig of horse carts and phaetons, hackney cabs and omnibuses. Oblivious to the cows and the traffic were ladies gaily dressed in yellows and pinks, blues and greens. And gentlemen in their gray and black business uniforms, who were so determined to get wherever it was they were going that they didn’t seem to care at all if they stepped their shined boots in dung or were nudged aside by a bovine snout.