Thoreau in Love (16 page)

Onboard the ferry, Henry and Susan settled into comfortable seats inside the crowded passenger cabin. Because it was so much easier for Henry to indulge in Susan’s discomfort than his own, he turned to her and, seeing in her right cheek a nervous twitch he’d never seen before, said, “This is difficult for you, isn’t it?”

Susan’s face tightened. She nodded. Henry, bereft of Ben, suddenly became so sleepy he wanted to close his eyes and drift off right there. But then the engine roared, and with it Henry’s excitement. Ashes and soot spewed from the stack, and Henry burst. “My first steam ferry!”

He jumped up, climbed over the amused passengers and out to the open stern. So what the chilly mist had turned to a light rain, Henry didn’t care. The sound of the engine was deafening, but Henry didn’t care. He leaned over the rail and watched the paddle wheel dig into the water. Like Sisyphus pushing his rock, the wheel dug into the water, and dug into the water and dug into the water, and then the water, or rather, the little steam ferry began to move. And soon they were tearing across the bay, as if it were frozen and they were on skates. Henry didn’t care that the roar of the engine and the piercing shrill whistle nearly deafened him, or that the smoke and soot blew into his wet face, or that he had to hold onto his hat to keep it from flying away; he was ebullient. Into the wet wind he screamed, “Yahoo!” And when two-thirds of the way across the great bay he was soaked and satisfied, he climbed back into the cabin and sat next to Susan. “It’s terrific.”

Soon the deafening roar of the engine lulled Henry, and as he scanned the passengers across from him, several ladies, prim in their high-necked coats, and a dozen men in their various hats, high collars and foulards, he wondered what these people would think about what he and Ben had done. They’d be scandalized. At first it excited him, but then he caught a handsome couple looking at him and then whispering to each other and he felt ashamed, ashamed of who he was, ashamed of what he’d done. It’s not normal, he thought. And all at once his time on
Dahlia
became an unreal time. What was I thinking? Henry looked around at the evidently successful men. Whispering to their wives, laughing, reading. I must make an effort to be more normal. More like these men. If I’m going to make my career I must control my underthoughts. Henry sat up, but Ben kept coming back into his mind, Ben’s thin face leaning to kiss him, Ben’s naked body cuddled up to him in their bunk. And instead of shame, Henry felt pride that for once he’d lived life. But this was not the place to think these thoughts. To distract himself from these happy thoughts and his growing tree, he wiped his face with his handkerchief and asked Susan if the ferry company had been named after Commodore Vanderbilt.

“In fact it is the Commodore’s ferry,” she said, her jaw clenched. “It’s how he made his name and wealth.” She launched into the Commodore’s story. As a young man, Vanderbilt was one of many who, before steam, sailed passengers and goods in small boats between Manhattan and Staten Island. One day in the midst of a great storm with crashing waves no one else dared sail in, Vanderbilt agreed to take the risk for a gentleman who had to return to Manhattan and was willing to pay greatly to get there. The pair arrived, soaked but safe, and the gentleman not only paid young Vanderbilt handsomely but also bestowed on him the sobriquet “Commodore” and told his friends about the harrowing journey. Vanderbilt became the ferryman of choice for the wealthy who kept country estates on Staten Island. He built up his fleet, steam-powered his ferries before anyone else and made his fortune. Then, as if Susan had known all along that Henry was thinking of Ben, she said, “It’s remarkable how you and that boy came so quickly to seem like brothers.” Henry froze. But then the engine quieted as they approached their dock. Susan put a hand lightly on his arm. “Perhaps we’ll find you a suitable young lady while you’re with us in Staten Island.”

Smiling tightly, Henry said, “Yes, I’d like that.”

Part II
Staten Island

8

One foot on damp land and Susan’s cheeks became as tight as drum skins; her voice pitched higher, and she couldn’t stop talking, to the ferrymen, the porters, the stage driver, the footman, the other passengers, and of course, to Henry. When the stage began its noisy journey she only spoke louder, going on and on about Vanderbilt and the other wealthy folks who summered on Staten Island. Henry tried to keep his attention on the beauteous surroundings, the azalea-covered pink and red hillsides, the spring-green grass, the apple orchards abloom and vibrant in the misty gray. Quietly he scoffed at Susan’s talk of her more than tenuous connection with the Commodore, but as they thundered up the Richmond road, he remembered uneasily how excited he’d been to sit in the parlor of the illustrious Sewell family, him, the poor young man from Concord, and how proud he was to tell everyone in Concord that he had among his students Edmund Sewell and later that he was seeing Ellen Sewell—and might even tie the knot with her. And didn’t they all think better of him because of it? As they passed the grand country houses and Susan went on about who lived where and what they were known for, Henry thought, Could I have been so small-minded? I was, wasn’t I? With Emerson too. Standing in his illustrious shadow, looking up like a loyal dog. Tossing his name around. Henry shook his head and, sotto voce, said, “But I’m finished with that.”

As they crested a hill, what seemed to be two small bushes rose to become two huge mounds of brilliant white blossoms. “My Lord,” said Henry, “look at those dogwood. Beautiful.” Susan sucked in a breath and said, “Lord help me.” Just beyond the dogwood was an old, vine covered, brown-shingled house with a large front yard and, to the far side, a long grape arbor. The stage slowed. Susan took Henry’s hand and squeezed. Her lace glove was damp. “I take it this is us,” said Henry.

Before Henry was off the stage, the door to the house opened and two mop-topped boys appeared, nattily attired in white shorts and middy blouses. Excited but restrained, the shorter blond one jumped up and down, quietly clapping his small hands. The air was fresh with the smell of cut grass. Birds chattered and sang. Meadowlarks, bobwhites, song sparrows. The sounds Henry loved. As he helped Susan out sunlight broke through the mist and illuminated the dogwood. Here and there, lank hedges of French lilac stirred in the light breeze. Both boys kept looking back into the house, awaiting release, then made way as William Emerson, fashionably dressed in business black, emerged onto the porch and put a tight hand on each of their shoulders. William was no doubt an Emerson, but whereas Waldo was softly featured and gentle in mien, William was sharp, with a sharp nose, sharp cheeks and a sharp chin. He smiled at Susan, then guided the boys slowly down the steps and path to where she stood with Henry, who felt uncomfortably like an intruder at the awkward reunion.

“Hello, dear,” said William. And Susan, holding herself with all her might, said, “William.” Keeping his hands firmly on his son’s shoulders, William turned to Henry. “Good to see you again, Henry. Welcome to the Snuggery.”

“Thank you,” said Henry. And then, to fill the obvious chill developing between Susan and William, “It’s a lovely house. And I love the arbor.”

“They’re Concord grapes,” said William.

“How appropriate,” said Henry. Susan leaned forward a bit and, a tight smile frozen on her face, said to her boys, “Hello, dears.”

“Hello, Mummy,” said the taller, dark-haired boy.

“Introduce yourself to Henry,” William instructed him.

“How do you do, Henry. I’m Willie.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Willie,” said Henry, bending slightly to shake the boy’s hand.

“And this is Haven,” said William, indicating with a nod the little blond boy, whose gaze was riveted on Susan.

“Welcome home, Mummy,” said Haven, holding back tears. He wiped his eyes with his fists.

“Back in the house with you, boys,” said William. Suddenly released from their father’s grip, the boys raced up the path and into the darkened doorway. William told Henry to leave his bag with Susan’s, then gave the footman a coin and, pointing, said, “Around to the side door, if you would.” He took Susan by the arm and walked her to the house.

“How was your trip?” he asked.

“I was seasick at first, but after that, fine. Lovely weather, wasn’t it, Henry?”

“In your Express letter you said you’d arrive yesterday afternoon,” said William, an edge in his voice. “I waited for you at the battery.”

“I’m sorry you had to wait. But don’t worry, dear, I more than saved on passage what I spent on Harden Express.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

Henry, feeling protective of Susan, said, “Our schooner ran aground leaving New London. We were stuck nearly twelve hours.”

“If you’d taken a steamboat, as planned—”

Henry interjected, “I was afraid to travel by steamboat.”

“I thought it was Susan.”

“No, no, it was me,” said Henry. “Though it was a needless fear.”

Inside, the boys stood before the stairs, terror in their eyes. Their mother was a wounded bird, a living creature to be treated with care, but what kind of care they had no idea.

“Come, sit,” said William, gingerly taking Susan into the parlor. Henry and the boys followed. William sat Susan in the stiff-backed horsehair couch, whether she wanted to sit there or not. “What can I get for you?”

“Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.”

“Mary,” called William. “Could we get a cool glass of water in here, please?”

“I’ve got it right here, Mr. Emerson,” said Mary, the young Irish girl who took care of the household. Entering the room with a joyful smile and her eyes locked on the brimming glass in her hand, Mary said, “Hello, Mrs. Emerson. Glad to have you back.”

Suddenly effusive, Susan jumped up and said, “Mary, how are you?” She took the glass, sloshing water, put it on the sideboard and, flicking water from her fingers and holding Mary’s hands, asked, “Did they treat you well?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am.”

Susan impulsively threw her arms around Mary and hugged her tight, saying, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you! I missed you so!” And it was as if she set off a bomb. William stood dumbfounded. The boys’ mouths fell open as they looked from their mother and Mary to their father. Then Willie went running from the darkened room, and after a moment, Haven took off after him. Henry, thinking, This is why I was hired, went after the boys. and caught them in the dining room. Henry sat in one of the side chairs, holding a boy in each hand, but not having any idea what to say, he smiled inanely, trying to amuse the boys.

Haven giggled, and then Henry noticed in the center of the highly polished mahogany table the stout cut-glass vase of azalea and dogwood blossoms. “Pretty flowers,” he said. Haven said, “Mary made them,” and Willie cut Haven’s enthusiasm, saying, “She didn’t make them. She cut them. Don’t you remember that?”

“They’re still very pretty,” said Henry. “And beautifully arranged.”

Eight-year-old Willie, a miniature of his father with a mop of dark-hair, said, “They are pretty.” Then, after a moment, he said, “Is Mummy all better?”

“Your mother seems fine to me. What was wrong with her?”

“She was in bed sick,” said Willie. “We weren’t supposed to make any noise.”

“Is Mummy still crying?” asked Haven, who was three.

“Crying?” Henry scrunched his lips in thought, searched for an answer in the dull reflection of the bright pink and white flowers, then he looked around the room and up to the ceiling he thought he could touch if he went on tiptoes. “No, I haven’t seen her cry once.”

“I don’t like when Mummy cries.”

“Let’s go back and see your mummy,” said Henry. Still holding their hands, he led them back to the parlor, whose ceiling was much higher than the dining room’s. Susan sat on the couch, and William, though solicitous toward Susan, stood over her, seething with anger. Mary stood by the doorway. After a few uncomfortable moments, Haven ran and jumped into his mother’s lap, where, despite his father’s protestations, he burst into tears and said, “I’m so sorry, Mummy, I promise I won’t be bad. Please don’t go away ever again.” At which point Susan dissolved, hugging and kissing first her “little leprechaun,” reassuring him that that wasn’t at all why she’d gone away. Then she said, “Willie, come here,” and Willie leaped onto the hard couch and scrambled to his mother.

“No feet on the couch,” said the boys’ father.

“Oh, leave them alone,” said Susan, caressing and kissing and hugging and holding her two little boys. After a few minutes of happy reunion, Susan said, “Oh, you come over here too, won’t you, William?” And William did, sitting properly on the other side of Willie. But then he lifted Willie and scooted closer to Susan, which is when Henry and Mary decided it was best to leave the family alone. As they backed into the hallway, trying to let on that they were leaving, Mary said, “I’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” and blushed azalea pink. Henry took his duffel and followed Mary up the simple but elegant staircase, thinking as he climbed how pretty she was, how easily her pale skin blushed. “Willie said you arranged the dining room flowers.”

Turning and blushing now crimson, Mary said, “I did, yes,” and Henry said, “You did a lovely job.” And he thought, we might become a couple. Another flight of stairs led to the high-peaked attic, where Mary, abashed to be alone with Henry, pointed to the brightly lit doorway at the end of the hall and said in a beautiful Irish lilt, “I made up your bed for you, and if there’s anything you need, Mr. Henry, please let me know.” Before he could even say thank you, Mary was speeding down the stairs.

Another attic aerie, thought Henry, looking up at the peaked roof. The bright light came from a four-foot wide, double-hung north window. The raw wood in the large room was the color of caramel, with old dark stains here and there on the underside of the roof to his right. The head of an iron bed, nicely made up, sat partly under the window. To the left of the bed, also under the window, was a narrow desk. Against the door wall stood a small bureau and a simple rush chair he could use for the desk. He knelt on the bed to look out the window, which opened easily. The Snuggery had been built in the hollow of a gentle hillside. Just below the window was one of the two-story mounds of blossoming dogwood; in the meadow beyond the yard, a huge elm spread magnificent branches. Henry stuck his head out and thought he heard above the chattering birds the roar of the ocean. The air smelled of cedar with whiffs of lilac. “Perfect,” he said, but when he sat back on the bed and gazed around the room, he wondered why he’d traveled so far only to find himself in a place very like the one he’d left. “Is this it, then?” Trying to find solace, he took out his journal, sat down at the desk and wrote: “Have I traveled all this distance only to find myself trapped in another Emerson family mess?”