Thoreau in Love (23 page)

“Toppy, that’s right.”

“She is a Boit.”

“A Boit?”

“The Boits are a very wealthy Boston family. But more important, have we ever met, apart from the other night? I feel a connection, as if I’ve known you my whole life.”

Henry was flattered. “Have you ever been to Concord?”

“Massachusetts? Never. Though I was raised in Bridgewater.”

“A Massachusetts man. . . . No, never been to Bridgewater.” Henry stretched forward to pick up a shell by his toes. An idea stopped him. “Harvard?”

“Yale here,” said Ralph, and Henry, still trying for the shell, thought, I don’t believe him. He shook his head, overlaid that thought with, Don’t be ridiculous, Henry. Why would he lie? The shell was just out of reach, so he leaned over to snatch it with his hand.

Ralph changed the subject again. “Your back seems to have picked up half the sand on this beach.” He brushed a splotch of sand off Henry’s shoulder in the warm sunshine, and when Henry didn’t protest, he brushed off more. Henry enjoyed Ralph’s gentle touch on his bare skin until Ralph’s hand found its way to his coccyx.

“Thank you,” said Henry, straightening up.

“Yes, I feel we are connected.”

“Maybe you’re a Transcendentalist after all.”

“I think it’s more than that,” said Ralph, and withered Henry with a leering look.

“The day’s getting on,” said Henry, “and so must I.” They stood. Ralph’s prick stood straight up, while Henry’s, though still engorged, was nowhere near hard. They brushed sand off their butts and thighs and looked one another up and down. “Nice seeing you,” said the reverend. He pulled on his trousers. “Nice seeing you too,” said Henry, snickering at the real meaning of the pleasantry he’d just said.

They went their separate ways. As Henry walked through the woods, looking at plants, dawdling, he thought about Ralph. Though a minister and married, he seemed also to have another side to him. Perhaps, Henry deduced, that’s all my attraction for Ben is for me, just another part of my whole being. His thoughts turned to Beatrice and his prospects with her. He thought of what their children might look like, and how gratifying it could be to have children, and to raise them with spirit. “Perhaps Ben was the last vestige of my youth. Perhaps Beatrice and I could live a normal life.”

12

At supper, Henry tried to talk about Henry James, with whom he had an appointment the following morning, but Susan and William only wanted to hear about his time with Beatrice. And to rib him about his interest in her. Henry asked, “Is Henry James really the wealthiest man in all of New York?”

“I don’t know about that,” said Susan, “but I do know Beatrice can’t wait to see you again. Or at least that’s what Madame Grymes heard on the quiet.”

“All right, I give up,” said Henry. “What is it you want to know?”

“Everything,” said William. And Henry once again happily provided all the details about Beatrice, from how she drove to what the inside of their house was like.

But when he finally went up to his room and lay down in his bed, his thoughts of Beatrice quickly turned to Ben. And kept him awake. He tossed, he turned, he thought about Ben. Why hasn’t he written? Was all he said a lie? Was it just a shipboard romance? Yes, he liked Beatrice, had a wonderful time with her, but he couldn’t imagine his life without Ben. Knowing he’d never sleep until he cut down his tree, he thought about being in the crow’s nest with Ben and went to work. After the sap flowed he fell off to sleep. He woke grumpy, and only rose when he was called to breakfast. But as he put his feet on the floor he knew he would have to put on a happy face for Susan. Maybe if I shave I’ll feel better.

Since he’d first started shaving, Henry had used his brother John’s razor and strop, but since talking on
Dahlia
with Ben, he couldn’t shave without wondering if John had intentionally cut himself that frigid January morning, and if he’d done it because Henry had stolen Ellen’s heart. Or if he’d done it because Henry had moved to the Emersons. And why had Henry not seen how badly John felt. While waiting for the soapy mess he’d smushed on his face to soften the splotchy soft hairs, he stropped John’s razor. Perhaps, like those boys on
Somers
pretending to be pirates, John was just playing, didn’t realize the unintended consequence. The steel finely sharpened, he scraped his right cheek, swished the blade in the water he’d poured in the China bowl, then wiped it clean with his shaving rag and scraped the rest of his face. When he went down to his day, he was greeted with a sharp, “Where have you been?” from Susan.

“Getting ready,” he said defensively.

“Did you forget your appointment?”

“Henry James! I did forget. Oh, thank you for reminding me.”

“Mary will take care of the children. No one will know. But you’d better get moving.”

Henry grabbed his hat, then stopped. “Oh, my story. I want to give it to Greeley or
Brother Jonathan
.” Henry ran upstairs, got “The Landlord” out of his desk drawer, stuffed it and his letters of introduction into his jacket pocket and ran down the stairs. Susan stopped him, holding out a letter, folded and sealed. “This just came for you.”

Henry lit up, thinking it was from Ben. But as he took it he recognized the handwriting: another letter from Ellery.

The ferry was nearly empty, but rather than sit, Henry stood in the open stern. The mate stoked the boiler, the steam rose, the paddlewheel tore into the water. Holding his hat to his head, Henry braced himself against the side rail and thrilled at the power and speed as they raced across the placid water. The closer they got to Manhattan, the higher the masts of the docked ships rose, until they were like a palisade protecting the city. Thinking he should read over his story before giving it to
Brother Jonathan
, he took it from his pocket and unfolded it. The wind gusted; a sheet of blue paper flew out of his hand: Ben’s love note. He barely caught it in the swirling air. He sat out of the wind and opened the blue paper. His heart sank.
My dear Henry, Make sure you know how I love you. You are my sun and my moon. You have given me life. Being without you will be like a knife in my heart. Ben Wickham
.

Again and again he read the note, and felt stronger and more confident with each reading. And then they were docking and Henry was climbing the gangway. Forget about Ben. I’ve work to do.
Brother Jon
, my brother John. We’ve a kinship.
Brother Jonathan
publishes new work, and I have new work. “I am the American spirit,” he said to the people waiting to board, but of course no one heard.

“Scandal on Wall Street, read all about it in this morning’s
Deal
,” shouted a newsboy on Whitehall Street.

“I gohd
Brodduh Jonatun
. Reat tuhday’s
Brodduh Jon
!” called another, a tall boy with bright green eyes and buck teeth.

“And where might your employer be?” asked Henry.

The boy looked at him as though he were a madman. “Whadd’ya, blind? Right heah.
Brodduh Jon
!”

“No, no. The building,” said Henry.

“Oh,
Brodduh Jon
’s. You gonha buy a paber?”

Henry produced a large penny from his pocket.

“Corner a Ann an Brawd Whay,” said the boy, handing Henry a paper and pointing uptown. “By Bahnim’s Musim.”

Henry put the paper in his jacket pocket and proceeded north, negotiating the crowds, the horse carts and the stinking manure as if he were a born New Yorker. But as he approached the building, his resolve faltered as he began to question whether “The Landlord,” indeed, any of his writing, was any good. Immediately he was bumped from behind and turned sideways. Who am I fooling, he thought. Bumped again where he’d stashed “The Landlord,” he reached quickly to his outside pocket to make sure his story was secure, then snickered to think someone might want to light-finger “The Landlord.” His confidence restored by life’s ludicrous folly, he took a deep breath, removed his hat and entered the building. After presenting his letter from Emerson he was ushered in to see a manly handsome man who seemed more suited to moving a desk than sitting behind one. John Neal was from Maine, and like many downeasterners, he had a bit of the lunacy and a fire inside him. He told Henry he was on deadline but was happy to spare time for a friend of Emerson’s, then held forth about the rights of women, castigating Horace Greeley for saying that women were created to be ruled by men. They had a spirited discussion about Emerson. Neal hated how America knelt before the altar of England, revering Carlyle and Dickens while eschewing the new American writing.

“I have some new American writing you might be interested in,” said Henry, seizing his opportunity.

“Do you now? Let’s have it.” Henry handed over his story and sat expectantly. John Neal said, “No, no, off with you. Come back in an hour.”

“Will two be all right? Henry James is expecting me.”

“Henry James up on Washington? He’s worse than Greeley. Women are nothing to him. But what a firecracker. Two hours is fine. I shall be here till very late.” Neal lowered his head to his work and waved Henry away.

As Henry stepped into the bright sunlight, an omnibus stopped just on the corner. He climbed into the coach—thought he heard his name called. And then thought, Who are you kidding, Henry? Even if someone did, there are probably a thousand Henry’s on this street alone. The omnibus took off and made good time to Fourth Street. Nonetheless, Henry was scolded by his host when he arrived at 21 Washington Place.

“Be on time, Mr. Thoreau. When you make an appointment, be on time.”

Mr. James’s father had been one of the wealthiest men in all of New York. And there was his son, with his wild hair and peg leg, seeming so out of place with his lush surroundings, yet so ironically suited as he stamped around on his peg. In the back room a baby screamed, and then a little boy crawled into the parlor, looking like the cat that ate the canary. “This is William,” said his father. Then, as if expecting the little boy on all-fours to stand and present himself, he continued the introductions: “William, this is Henry, Henry Thoreau.” Henry didn’t quite know what to do, but it didn’t matter. Henry James was on a tear. “Have you read Fourier? Charles Fourier? You read French do you not?”

“I read French, Greek, Latin, Spanish, German and Italian. Though English is the only language I speak fluently.”

“He’s all the rage in Europe. He and his idiotic utopias! Have you been to Brook Farm?”

“The Hive?”

“Do they really call it
the Hive
?”

“They do. And no, I’d rather keep the bachelor’s hall in hell than buzz around their honeycomb.”

“What about Swedenborg? I have not read him yet, but I know he somehow makes sense. Either he has the answer or he is an out-and-out lunatic!” After Henry announced that he didn’t go to church, Mr. James said, “By God, I go all the time, trying to find something that works, something that makes sense of it all.” A stab of the air, a kick of the peg. “There must be one that does!”

“What about our Transcendentalism?”

“I meant to take a turn around the parade grounds with you, but I promised to stay with Harry and William. No, no. Not Transcendentalism.” Mrs. James was out for the afternoon, and nurse was called away with a death in her family, so little William James and baby Harry had been left in the care of their father and the Irish girl who knew nothing about babies, or little boys, for that matter. “One thing I can tell you,” said Mr. James as if Henry had asked, “my boys will not be raised as I was. They will have someone who cares right from the start, not just after they’ve lost a leg to some silly accident. I want to be involved with their lives. Teach them, show them the world, help them when they need help, not just toss them out to fend for themselves, the way my father did me.” Henry told Mr. James about the experimental school he and John had started, and then they talked about Concord, Emerson and Hawthorne. Henry was surprised not only that Mr. James knew of and had read the little-known Hawthorne but also that he had one of just 200 published copies of
Twice-Told Tales
in his library. On and on they went, and as Papa James sermonized and slashed the air, little William scampered about on the French carpeting, trying to reach this cloth, that pillow, pull down a drape, climb a table or a peg leg; Henry felt a kinship with him. And then Mr. James said, “But tell me: How is William’s godfather?”

“Godfather, sir?”

“Waldo! Did he not tell you he is godfather to my son? It wasn’t long after he lost his own boy. He honored me by standing for William.”

“That was a terrible time. My brother, John, died just the week before. It’s no wonder Waldo neglected to mention it.”

Mr. James’s expression turned thoughtful. “May I ask what day your brother died?”

Despite finding the question odd, Henry said, “The eleventh of January, 1842.”

“Astounding,” said Mr. James. “The very day William was born. Do you believe in the transmigration of souls?”

Henry pictured John’s spirit circling around in search of a new body and choosing to be reborn in little William James. And Henry James continued. “You know Swedenborg circled the solar system? At least he says he did. And if you do not believe that, everything he says goes out the window. But that is not so different from you Transcendentalists, is it?”

“I would say quite different,” said Henry, haughtily.

Thankfully for Henry, at that moment baby Harry, not three months old, shrieked so that they ran to his bassinet, where he lay on his back, his little fingers curled, his mouth agape, his eyes wide, staring as if he was seeing some horror. As one, Henry, Mr. James and the Irish girl turned their heads up to see what baby Harry could be so involved in, but there was nothing there, at least nothing they could see. Henry James Sr. said, “It is not the ceiling he is focused on, but something between us and the ceiling. Lord hope he is not seeing that horrible creature that nearly laid waste to me.”

“There’s nothing there,” Henry choked out.