Thoreau in Love (6 page)

Embarrassed by the attention being paid him, Henry said, “You’re mad.”

“No I’m not,” said Ben.

“John always made fun of my nose.”

“Did he? Well, I love your nose.”

“Anyway, when John finally asked Ellen to marry him, she told him she was sorry but she was in love with me. And John? John was happy for me. More than happy. It was as if he hadn’t cared for Ellen at all.”

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“Oh Lord, it never occurred to me. . . .”

“What?”

“He cut his ring finger. His wedding ring finger. That’s how he died.”

“He died from a cut?”

“No. Lockjaw. Oh my Lord. Maybe he wasn’t so happy for me. I never thought of that. It was his wedding ring finger. Before Ellen told him she was in love with me, he used to pretend he’d be putting on a wedding ring. Lord. . . . Anyway, soon after Ellen told John no, we went to Scituate, with the intention of my asking for Ellen’s hand. The Sewells have this beautiful house, servants. They’re a very important family. Ellen’s great-great-great grandfather was one of the Salem witch trail judges.”

“The Salem witch trial? That really happened?”

“Yes it really happened.”

“I thought it was just a story to scare children. They actually hanged all those people? Crushed them with millstones?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’re lucky they don’t do witch trials now—they’d crush you to death for not going to church.”

“They probably would, wouldn’t they?”

“I’m sorry, I talk too much. Go on.” Ben sat up and casually closed the neck of Henry’s jacket, making Henry feel like the most important man on earth. “It’s getting cold again.”

“It is,” said Henry, astonished that Ben would care so much—about him. Henry wanted only to put an arm around Ben. Instead, he went on. “This is the part I forgot all about. We’re sitting at dinner—me, John. Bone china, white linen tablecloth, silver spoons and forks, sparkling glasses. Reverend Sewell is at the head—”

“Reverend? What did he think of your not going to church?”

“I suppose he didn’t know. But there he was, and Mrs. Sewell is at the other end of the table. I’m sitting between Ellen and Edmund.”

“Your student.”

“Yes. John and Ellen’s aunts are across from us. Cocoa tapioca was being served. Edmund flops a spoonful onto his plate and the way it lands, well, he whispers, ‘Just like your poo.’”

“Your poo?”

“Edmund and I were very close. We used to go out to this pond to go swimming, all by ourselves, and when we had to go we’d just squat Indian-style. One time, I don’t know, it must have been something I ate, but Edmund couldn’t stop making fun of my poo, and the tapioca, it did look exactly like my poo did that day. I was nervous enough as it was, wondering if I was doing the right thing asking for Ellen’s hand, so when Edmund said that, I burst out a laugh. Then Edmund giggled and the more he giggled the more I laughed. Mrs. Sewell said, ‘What’s so funny?’ And of course we couldn’t say, so we laughed even more. Then Reverend Sewell boomed out, ‘Edmund. Henry. Share the fun or stop laughing. Do you hear me?’ Edmund and I stopped at the exact same moment, which almost set us off again. Then Reverend Sewell said, ‘If I didn’t know better, Henry, I would have thought you were set on Edmund, not Ellen.’”

“Lord.”

“Yes.” Henry sat up, faced Ben. “That’s exactly what he said. How could I have forgotten that? No one dared move or make a sound. Everyone was glaring at me. The awful truth of it just sitting there. Then Mrs. Sewell said, ‘Oh, Edmund,’ that was her husband’s name too, and she chirped out this little laugh. And everyone snickered and then laughed and laughed, me hardest of all, at the clear, horrifying truth.”

“So you knew it was true?”

“I didn’t before, but I did then.” Henry’s head dropped, and he shook it slowly in dismay. “Ellen stopped laughing and burst into tears. Wailing tears. And ran from the room. Her mother and her aunts went after her. Reverend Sewell is sitting there, glowering at me. He pushes out his chair, says, ‘Come Edmund, time for bed.’ Edmund looked at me with the saddest eyes. And then he was gone. As he closed the door, Reverend Sewell said, ‘Seems we’ll need to find a new school.’ And there we are, the Thoreau boys, alone in disgrace. And John begins to comfort me. . . . Can you believe it? Me, who stole Ellen’s heart. . . . We left the next morning, before anyone else was awake, our tails between our legs like two curs.”

“What a horrible story.”

“And the worst of it is, I didn’t really care about John or Ellen. What upset me most was that I’d never see Edmund again.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m glad I’m with you.”

“Me, too,” said Ben, nudging closer to Henry.

“It is cold out here,” said Henry, nestling up to Ben..

“Let me put you under my arm. Skipper says I’m like a furnace.”

Ben unbuttoned his jacket and awkwardly tried to cover Henry with it.

“Aren’t you cold?” asked Henry.

“I’m used to it,” said Ben. “I’ve been cold since I was five years old.”

“But you sure feel warm.”

“I grew up in a house like your friend Edmund. On a hill overlooking the ocean, Block Island Sound, the harbor. I loved that house. Lead-white clapboard, green shutters. We had three people working for us.”

“Nice way to grow up.”

“But in winter the wind never stops. My father loves Block Island. That’s why they settled there. But it’s too confining for me.”

“I’d guess everyplace is too confining for you.”

“You might be right. But, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m getting kind of cold. And, well, I was just wondering, I mean I guess you offered me the other bunk, but, you think we could go down to your cabin?”

Terrified but excited, Henry was mute. Thoughts of Stearns flashed through his mind, Stearns, who was always trying to get Henry to be in touch with his heart, which of course meant become more like the flamboyant Stearns, who was always being taunted for being a pansy.

“If you don’t want to—”

“No, no, I’d like that.”

“You would? But you can’t tell anyone. Specially not the skipper.”

The moment they stood, Henry realized what he’d agreed to and became even more terrified. What have I done? What am I doing? “You can’t tell either.”

“Don’t worry. I’m the one who’ll get in trouble.” Comically tiptoeing in an exaggerated fashion, Ben led Henry across the deck. He quietly opened the hatch to the cabins, shushed Henry and tiptoed down the steps. He took the lighted lamp off the bulkhead and hung it from the hook in the cabin. Henry shut and bolted the door—and panicked.

He and Ben were alone. Now what? Scrunching his shoulders, every muscle in his body tense, Henry cowered in the corner, against the hinges of the closed door. Ben removed his jacket and tossed it on the top bunk. Then he turned and, making a rubbery, comically quizzical Ben face, asked quietly, “What are you doing over there?”

Henry looked around, shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” asked Ben. Again Henry shrugged, then nodded yes. Ben shivered, said, “You know, it is kind of chilly in here. I think I’m going to sleep in my clothes.” He grabbed his jacket and put it back on, then climbed to the top bunk, flipped onto his side, facing Henry, and said, “I usually sleep down there, but do you mind if I take the top bunk?”

Henry nodded, relaxed, whispered, “Top bunk’s great.” He stepped out of the corner and into the middle of the open space. “It is cold in here, isn’t it?” said Henry. He got into the lower bunk, relieved and thrilled to be in Ben’s bunk, with Ben right above him.

Ben looked over the side and smiled. “Maybe we can be friends, the way you were with Edmund.”

“I’d like that,” said Henry.

Still leaning over, Ben said, “Do you mind if I just look at you awhile?”

“As long as I can look at you too.” For several minutes they gazed into each others eyes, then Henry, exhausted from his long day, dozed off. When he opened his eyes, Ben was still gazing happily at him.

“Hey,” said Ben. “I got to see you sleeping.”

“I’m tired,” said Henry.

“I’ll douse the lamp.”

Ben reached out, cupped his hand over the top of the chimney and blew, extinguishing the light. After saying good night, Henry thought about how his life had changed, and how happy he was for the change. The sea had quieted to an occasional whoosh against the hull. Then there was a rustling in the bunk above, and then some more rustling, and Henry thought, Did he just pull his blanket down? Henry pricked his ears, held his breath, wondering, Is he unbuttoning his pants? He didn’t dare make a sound, and then he was sure he heard Ben taking sharp, furtive breaths. No, it can’t be, he thought. Must be the way he breathes when he sleeps. But then there were more sharp, shallow breaths from Ben, and Henry was sure Ben’s pants were open and he was whacking his tree. Henry’s cock was hard as maple, and he thought, If he can do it why not me? Quiet as could be, Henry unbuttoned his own trousers and began to wank himself. Ben sucked in a breath, and Henry thought, Oh God, he is doing it, and he didn’t worry so much about being so quiet, and then, neither did Ben. But neither of them said a word, and very quickly after the sap ran, they fell asleep.

3

Henry awoke as Ben was closing the door behind him, so he climbed into the still-warm top bunk and, like a dog, rolled around in Ben’s heat, inhaled Ben’s scent, lay in his afterglow. Soon, wanting to see Ben, he got up, opened the door to let in light, fished out the
Odyssey
, which he’d brought to read on his odyssey, and took that and his journal and went on deck.

Darkness filled most of the sky, but stirrings of light glowed in the east. Wanting to record the beauty of his first morning at sea, he opened his journal, took in the day and after a while put pencil to paper. The lead flaked, then fell out of its wood cylinder. “Father, father,” he said, shaking his head. “I hope they’re not all like this.” He went back to his cabin and got another pencil, checked the lead and whittled a point. Back on deck he wrote:

Sunrise at Sea: The actual sunrise at sea is not so beautiful as on land—it wants the accompaniment of the songs of birds, the glancing of the first beams upon trees, hills, spires—yet nothing on land compares with the early breaking of day, the first gray streaks stretching along the eastern horizon, throwing an indistinct light upon the face of the deep, which combines with the boundlessness and unknown depth of the sea around you and gives one a feeling of loneliness and dread and of melancholy foreboding, which nothing else in nature can give. This feeling begins to pass as the light grows brighter
.

Henry read over what he’d written and thought, Better that than nothing at all. He continued.

A fair young soul, a nauta juvenis

Appeared like a dream out of mist

“No, no.” Henry looked up. The sky had turned a brilliant blue. The air was warmer than the day before, and stretching to the horizon were dozens, scores, no, hundreds of sails. What could they be? Henry turned toward the bow to see if there were sails gathered anywhere else—and saw Ben, his hands flying, making faces, engaged in an animated conversation with another sailor. Henry nodded, trying to hide his excitement. “What are all those sails?”

“That’s the mackerel fleet,” said Ben. “Going off to their fishing grounds.”

“Mackerel fleet going off for a treat,” said the other, an unshaven cherub with bright pink cheeks, white whiskers and white hair. Realizing who it was, Henry said, “You must be Cook, the one who rhymes.” Cook acknowledged Henry with a nodding smile, and then Henry caught Cook with, “Ben’s told me about you, four or five times.”

Cook burst out laughing.

“Oh, no,” moaned Ben, “Not two rhymers.”

“But if you’re gonna eat,” said Cook. “I gotta move these feet,”

After Cook went forward, Ben said, “That was good, Henry. Very good.”

Henry and Ben stood by the railing. The sea was a clear green, not the blue he’d expected, and when Henry looked down he saw fish swimming and vegetation swaying. The sun warmed him. He wanted to bring back last night, the connection they’d made, but then, realizing he could see sand, anxiety took over. “Is that the bottom?”

“The bottom it is,” said Ben.

“It’s not very deep here, is it?”

“You mean, are we going to run aground?”

Henry smiled, caught in his fear. “We’re awfully close to the shore.”

“Don’t worry, we’re fine.” Ben put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s at least three fathoms, 18 feet. We only draft six, eight feet, and there’s nothing out here but flat sandy bottom.” Ben’s reassurance was welcome, but his hand on Henry’s shoulder in public, in daylight, made Henry extremely uncomfortable. “You rose early,” he said, moving away as nonchalantly as possible, so Ben’s hand would drop.

Ben, miffed at Henry’s discomfort, backed away and let his hand drop to his side. Coolly, he said, “I’m always up before everyone else, no matter how late I go to bed. Anyway, I’ve got to get back to Cook.” And with that, he turned and went forward, and didn’t look back, as Henry hoped.