Thoreau in Love (5 page)

“Right here’s where we go. I just went.”

Henry, flustered, stood beside Ben. Other sailors passed behind them.

“Don’t be shy,” said Ben. “But let me get upwind, so you don’t get me wet.”

“Good thought,” said Henry, laughing. But then, “I can’t. Not with you watching.”

“I used to be like that,” said Ben, moving behind Henry. “Not anymore.”

Henry undid his trousers and pissed over the side. And pissed and pissed. And then Ben was beside him again, watching and smiling, but there was no stopping Henry.

“You did have to go, didn’t you?” said Ben.

“I did,” said Henry, buttoning up.

“That’s a nice prick you’ve got.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

I’m afraid everyone else did too, thought Henry. But then he found himself saying, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Ben. “Least from what I saw.”

Henry flushed. “Not that. The colors.” The sliver of sun disappeared into the sea.

“Quick, watch there,” said Ben, putting one hand on Henry’s shoulder and with the other pointing to where the sun had just sunk. “It doesn’t always happen, but—” and suddenly a lime green band glowed on the horizon just over where the sun had set. “There, did you see that?”

“It turned green! How did that happen?”

“I don’t know, but isn’t that great?”

Feeling uncomfortable that Ben’s hand remained on his shoulder, Henry turned so it dropped, then, in awe, said, “We’re in the Atlantic Ocean.”

The sea glowed with magentas and purples and splotches of rose, and after a few breathless moments of not being able to speak, Henry said, “It doesn’t get better than this, does it?”

“You wait,” said Ben. “It will.”

Henry was so happy he didn’t want to speak. Slowly they turned, to take in the whole scene. For Henry, the whole scene was Ben. And then Ben said, “That’s Provincetown,” and Henry looked to the distant, dark shore and saw lights twinkling. “And you are very handsome.”

“You’re a lunatic,” said Henry. They leaned against the gunwale and watched the dark envelop the earth. Overhead, stars twinkled and then glowed, and soon bright stars and constellations shone all around, down to the horizon. Henry said, “It is a dome. Now I see why they thought the world was flat.”

“It’s awesome, isn’t it?”

“I feel I’ve never really seen the night sky before.”

“I love it,” said Ben, “but I’ve got to get back, or they’ll think I went overboard. Shouldn’t be long till supper. Passengers eat in the captain’s quarters.”

“Susan and I are the only ones, aren’t we?”

Ben nodded. “But we’ll probably get one more in New London.”

The captain’s cabin was much larger than Henry had imagined, with a table and chairs, a sofa rigged for heavy weather, two seaworthy bookcases filled with well-worn volumes and a warm stove. A cove bed was hidden behind a thick blue drape. Susan, slightly green, sucked air but said she was much better than she had been. The lumpen-faced Mrs. Hawke pulled up her sleeves, revealing lovely white dimpled skin. She insisted Henry call her Gale and told the story of how
Dahlia
had belonged to her father, and how Peter, as she called Captain Hawke, had caught her eye the first time he sailed with them. “Course he looks much better now he’s dressing in a style befitting a captain.” Gale winked at Peter, who looked at his plate. Gale continued. “My mum died when I was five, in childbirth. Baby died too. So Daddy took me onboard, and this has been my home ever since. All these things are Daddy’s. He taught me everything there is to know, my daddy did, about sailing, the sea, our good little ship, and keeping the books, thank the Lord, since Peter’s none too good at that.”

She took a slug of rum, and Henry thought of Concord, where half the town was drunk on rum day and night.

“I could probably take this old tub to sea by myself, but I like having the men around. Specially this one.” She tugged the captain’s right cheek. Flushing red, the captain said, “That’s enough, Gale.”

“Every day I miss my daddy.” Another slug of rum.

Henry listened to Gale but his attention was on Ben, who served as the captain’s steward at meals. After a few moments of quiet, Henry said, “And where are you from, Ben?”

Gale answered. “He’s from Block Island.”

Ben nodded.

“And soon he’s going back there.”

Ben paled.

“No, dammit,” said the captain, pounding the table. “He’s my crew!”

“I know where Block Island is,” said Henry.

“You do?” asked Ben, incredulously.

Captain Hawke spat a breath of air. “Who doesn’t know Block Island?”

“Landlubbers don’t know it,” said Ben.

“Did I ask your opinion, Somers?”

“No, sir.”

Aside to Henry, Susan said, “Please, leave the young man alone.”

But that was asking the impossible. All he could see was Ben. His wild brown hair and long, thin face; his sleepy, tortoise eyes. Ben lifted a thin finger to scratch his cheek and Henry wished he could be that finger.

Five or six times during the meal, the captain, no fumblebum, dropped his fork or knife and said, “Somers,” and Ben, making faces, dutifully picked up the utensil and returned it to the table. Susan tried to be polite company but she barely ate a thing and spent most of her time looking from the captain to Henry to Ben and back to Henry again. Finally, she said, “Henry, you haven’t eaten a thing. And you said you were so hungry.” Mrs. Hawke shot Henry a chilling look, then said, “Peter wouldn’t be captain if it weren’t for marrying me,” and there was no question whose flesh the old bird’s talons were tearing.

As Ben removed Henry’s plate, he asked, “Bread pudding?” Henry shook his head until Ben whispered, “I made it myself.”

“Yes, please,” said Henry, and devoured the plate of pudding Ben set before him.

After supper, Susan suggested to Henry that they go on deck, her stomach having been settled by the calm seas and the bread pudding. Henry asked Ben to join them and Susan glared. Mrs. Hawke said, “You go on, Wickham,” which gave her husband apoplexy. “You’re not going anywhere, Somers” he said. “I’m not finished with you.”

As Susan and Henry squeezed through the passageway, she took his arm. “You make me so happy, Henry,” she said.

Thinking, I hope she’s not another Lidian, and then, wanting to dispel that thought, Henry said, “But if you would, Why
did
you leave your family? Especially so soon after giving birth?”

Susan thought for a moment. “It was as if I was sinking into a well and I couldn’t get out. I didn’t want another child. Had I stayed, I would have drowned. And, yes, I suffered with the mean, judgmental looks I received in Concord, especially from Lidian, but it was far better being there than at home. Now let’s go on deck.”

Watching their step, they strolled the deck, admired the heavens and commented on how pleasant it was with just enough breeze to fill the sails. All the while, Henry thought about Ben, wondering where he was, wishing he was seeing this beauty with him. Soon, he and Susan went inside, where lighted lamps hung beside their respective doors. Henry took his into his cabin and hung it on the wall, then he picked up his journal with the thought of writing a poem. But when he opened to the blue-lined page where he’d left off, he saw what he’d written: “
Nauta Juvenis
. I’ve just met a young sailor named Ben Wickham.” He thought for a minute, then wrote:

What is it about Ben Wickham that makes my heart pound? I don’t will it. And why am I embarrassed? Though I feel I have something to hide, do I really? Emerson said to speak the rude truth. What I feel I must hide is the force that drives my nearly every thought, determines my every action, makes me who I am. Isn’t this force I feel I must hide in fact what makes me Henry Thoreau? When I wrote Stearns that I was moving to New York, he replied that I was finally about to begin my life. I’m finished with hiding Henry Thoreau. This is my new life. There is some connection between me and Ben. But is it just a flickering light, to be doused when morning comes?

Henry slipped out of his cabin and went on deck, hoping to see Ben. “I’ll give him till I count to a hundred.” Slowly he began to count to himself, then even more slowly. The empty night and millions of stars made him feel insignificant. Twice he lost count, but then the slightest crescent of moon appeared low in the sky, and it was so achingly beautiful Henry forgot all about counting. “Beauty is truth,” he said, and then out of nowhere the nightmare he’d had that afternoon came into his mind. Please, no.

The stern hatch opened and like a savior there was Ben. But he walked past Henry without saying a word. Crushed, Henry said tentatively, “Ben?”

Ben stopped. “Who’s that?”

“Henry. Henry Thoreau?”

“Oh, Henry. Sorry. I was a bit preoccupied. And I can’t see you at all. My eyes are still inside.”

“You were going along the deck pretty well.”

“I can cross the deck blindfolded. I know where everything is.”

“Try closing your eyes for a moment.”

“Okay. They’re closed.”

“Now open them.”

“Oh, that’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Some slang I picked up in New York. Dead—the best there is. I can see everything now. How are you?”

Henry was thrilled that Ben had taken his suggestion. “I’m great, now that you’re here.” Henry surprised himself with his honesty. “Before you appeared. . . .”

“Being at sea can do that to you. All the things you bottle up come pouring out.”

“I had this nightmare, earlier, when I fell asleep. No, not a nightmare. Something that actually happened, that I had totally forgot about. Like it never happened, until it all came back in this dream, and I was there all over again.”

“Tell me. . . . If you don’t want to—”

“No, I’d like to tell you. No one can hear, can they?”

“Let’s go up to the bow, if it’s privacy you want.” Ben took Henry’s hand and led him to the bow, and for Henry, feeling Ben’s warm hand was worth the whole trip. They squatted and settled against the line coiled there. After a long moment, Ben said, “That’s better. So?”

“I don’t know where to begin . . . .”

Ben laid a reassuring hand on Henry’s thigh. “Relax, look at the stars. It’s such a beautiful night.” Henry gulped, and Ben soothingly went on. “Skipper’s been teaching me the stars. But they’re still pretty much of a mess for me. My mother used to tell me stories about the constellations, but seems she made it up as she went along. Least from what the skipper says.”

“I had this student. Edmund Sewell. . . .”

After another silence, Ben said, “You’re a teacher?”

“I was. My brother and I started a school. An experimental school. Edmund made me feel something I’d never felt before. Just being around him excited me, and when I wasn’t with him I thought about him all the time. I know this sounds stupid, but it’s very much like I am now, with you.”

Truly unbelieving, his voice rising high to the question, Ben said, “You think about me?”

“I do. I can’t get you out of my mind.”

“Really?” asked Ben, his voice cracking. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met. I keep wanting to see you.”

“Is that true?” asked Henry.

“It is. But I feel funny because of your wife.”

“My— Susan? She’s not my wife.”

“She’s not?”

“She is married, but not to me. I’m going to New York to tutor her children.”

“Stupid me.” Ben sat up. “I was sure you were married. I’m glad you’re not.”

“So am I. But that’s what my dream was about. Well, Edmund made me feel totally alive. The way I feel right now with you. . . .”

“That’s how I feel with you. Like my life is, I don’t know, like I’m just being born. I’m sorry. Go on with your dream.”

“Edmund had an older sister. Ellen. And my older brother, John, fell heels over head for her. John was. . . . John and I were very close. Every night after we’d get in our beds we talked about everything. He protected me, from everything and everybody, even though I was stronger than he was. But everybody loved John.”

“Loved?”

“He died, a year and four months ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Henry nodded sorrowfully. “Me too. John was remarkable. Anything anyone asked him to do, he did. John did everything right. Me, I do everything wrong. I say things when I shouldn’t. I don’t go to church.”

“You don’t go to church?”

“Never. Except for funerals, or if there’s a wedding. Anyway, one night John told me he wanted to marry Ellen, and suddenly I wanted to marry Ellen, too. I told John he couldn’t just ask for her hand, he had to give it more time.” Henry lifted himself to his side, to face Ben. “I’ve never told this to anyone. John trusted me. He waited. And while he was waiting, I won Ellen’s heart. The strange thing was, it was so easy.”

“I can believe that. You’re smart, handsome.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry if you don’t think so, but you are. And you have the most kissable lips. I’ll bet she wanted to kiss you all the time.”

“She did, but I’m not one for kissing.”

Ben, reaching for one of Henry’s locks, said, “I love the way your hair curls down into your face, and your nose. . . .” Ben’s fingers followed the curl of one of Henry’s locks down Henry’s nose. “It’s such a strong nose, but so different, the way it droops.”