Thoreau in Love (9 page)

Henry, exhausted just from watching, thought, What a majesty is sailing. He gazed up at Ben, ten or twelve feet above him in the forward crow’s nest, and there was Ben’s bare cock, sticking straight out from his pants. Ben looked down at Henry and smiled like a fool. And shook his hips. Henry sternly shook his head no. But Ben didn’t care. He took his stiff cock in his fingers and flopped it from side to side. And Henry was mesmerized. Suddenly Ben stopped, turned and shouted, “Shoal, starboard!”

“Hard about,” screamed the captain. Ben pulled in his cock and held tight to the mast, saying, “Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!”
Dahlia
veered to port; the crew sprang into action. Henry pulled himself up to the gunwale, looked over the railing and saw the shallow water they’d barely avoided.

After his blood rush of near disaster, Henry settled back into his crook in the bow, but even minutes later his insides still thrilled with excitement, not only of disaster averted but also of seeing Ben’s cock. In his mind’s eye it was still sticking out, yellowy white, as was all of Ben’s skin, and smoothly tubular. Henry couldn’t believe Ben had just like that pulled out his cock. It was something he could never do, and he found himself hoping Ben would do it again. But Ben seemed intent on scanning for shoals. Henry looked aft, where nothing much was going on, then returned his gaze to Ben. His wish had been granted. But when Ben saw his cock had Henry’s attention, he stuck out his tongue and pulled himself back in his trousers. How free he is, thought Henry.

After
Dahlia
passed out of the channel and back into clear sea, Ben and Henry sat in the warm sunshine, leaning against the gunwale and each other, their bodies touching from shoulder to thigh. Ben said, “Now I’ve taken my cock out in the crow’s nest.”

“One more achievement to check off your list?”

“I’ll check you off my list,” said Ben, tickling Henry.

“No, stop. Stop. Ben, stop.” Ben did stop, but then Henry’s mood darkened, and Ben, noticing the change, said, “So now you’re worrying what anyone would think if they saw us sitting here like this.”

Henry laughed. “How did you know? If Susan saw us sitting like this, she’d be horrified.”

“With good reason,” said Ben, his lower lip dropping into a smile. “She’d know what we were thinking.”

“And what might that be?”

Ben pulled in his chin, creating rubbery folds of skin. “Henry, don’t play the fool. And don’t be afraid. Say what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking, when we were together last night, it seemed so normal to me. Perfectly normal, no, not even that: perfect, what my life should be. But for them it’s perverted, despicable. I wish it was just you and me somewhere, maybe on some deserted island, and we could do all the things we really want to do.”

Smiling, Ben said, “And if we were off on that island, what would we do?”

“What would you do?”

“Me?” Ben’s smile grew. He locked eyes with Henry, then, moving his hand slowly, said, “I’d put my hand on your thigh, like this.”

“Ben, no. Someone will see.” Henry tried to slough off Ben’s hand.

Loosening his grip, but still gently holding Henry’s thigh, Ben said, “Remember, we’re off by ourselves. There’s no one else around.”

Henry abruptly changed the subject. “I’ve got that poem. Shall I read it to you?” From his inside pocket he withdrew an old, well-read copy of
The Dial
, folded open to his poem.

“You didn’t say it was published.”

“Waldo finally insisted, which made Margaret furious.”

“May I read it?” Henry handed over the magazine. Ben read aloud, “ ‘Sympathy,’ by Henry D. Thoreau.”

“You can read it to yourself, if you’d prefer.”

Ben moved his lips silently as he read. “Oh, I like that. ‘On every side he open was as day,’ ” then continued in silence, occasionally nodding his head. Henry leaned into him, trying to figure out where he was in the poem. “This is about love,” Ben said, and read aloud.

“So was I taken unawares by this
,

I quite forgot my homage to confess;

Yet now am forced to know, though hard it is
,

I might have loved him, had I loved him less.”

Henry was in heaven. The sun was shining, the air was warm, and Ben was beside him reading his poem. Henry watched Ben’s face to see if he liked what he was reading. When Ben was finished, he said, “That’s really good, Henry. I like it very much.” He held the magazine out with both hands. “May I keep this?”

Because he had another copy in his bag, Henry said, “Please. Of course.”

“Thank you.” Ben put it inside his jacket. “I’ll keep it near my heart.”

“Or I can bring it back to the room, in case you get wet,” Henry suggested.

Ben handed back
The Dial
. “What that woman said is true. It is a love poem to that boy.” Henry turned white. “But why do you care what she or anyone else thinks? It’s a beautiful love poem.”

“Ben, please. Don’t keep repeating what Margaret said. I don’t really care. But sometimes I do.”

“If all you care is what other people think, then you’re living their lives, not your own.”

“Stearns always told me that: Live your own life, not the life others want you to lead.” Henry snickered. “Of course, the rough boys were always stoning him or ducking him in the pond. That’s why he went abroad. ‘In Germany,’ he said, ‘there’s room for people like me.’ ”

“He’s a pansy?”

“Not a pansy. He’s . . . different.”

“Sounds like a pansy to me. You live your own life, you take a big chance, especially if you’re, as you say, different. But it beats living like a church mouse, afraid of everything and everyone.”

“You’re right.” Henry smirked. “But more important, are you ticklish?”

“No, I’m not.” Ben cowered as Henry attacked his midsection with wriggling fingers. “I’m not. I’m not.” Giggling wildly, Ben tried to squirm away, but Henry had him trapped. “No, Henry, don’t. I’ll pee. I will. I’ll pee.” Ben was about to wet himself when the captain’s booming voice brought them to attention.

“Wickham! What the hell you candy-asses think this is? Into my cabin with you.”

As Ben got up, he lifted his eyes and gave Henry a discreet squeeze.

The captain glowered at Henry. “And you, Mr. Thoreau, I’d appreciate you leave the crew alone.”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry. “Sorry, sir.”

Chastened, Henry went back to Homer, and began to worry about his upcoming life in New York. Would he be able to publish his writings? He looked out at the horizon and thought about what Susan had said about Staten Island. “At least I won’t be in the midst of Manhattan.” Susan, still sick from all the violent tacking, remained in her cabin with her well-used bucket.

Late in the afternoon, after the sea had calmed, the cook tossed several lines over the side, incanting, “Cod, cod, God’s gift to a Cook, come quick to my bait, let me sink my hook.” With help, he pulled up a cod that had to be fifty inches long, saying as he got him aboard, “This cod’s scrod.” He gutted and boned the monster on deck, pointing out the different edible parts, from the tasty “tongue,” which was really its neck, to the “sound” or air bladder. Ben came up quietly behind them and squatted. Cook said, “Duty done, my dear young one?”

“Done,” said Ben, exhausted.

Henry said, “Cook has quite a technique for fishing.” Then, sensing something very off with Ben, he asked, “Are you all right?”

Ben shook his head slowly. “I can’t talk now.”

The cod was delicious, fresh, flaky, crisp on the outside, “sizzled in drizzled lard,” said the cook; Henry swore it was the best fish he’d ever eaten. After supper, Ben went with Cook to clean up, and Henry and Susan, who was no longer sick, tentatively walked the deck. Susan took his hand, she said for support, and Henry, wondering what it was Ben couldn’t talk about, took her hand warmly in his. Endless stars crowded the night sky, overhead and to the horizon, where constellations and planets were the only clues to distinguish the night from the ink-black sea, while to the north, dim lights sprinkled the distant shore. Like a little girl, Susan began to swing their clasped hands, saying, “Isn’t this fun? You make me feel young again.” She looked in Henry’s eyes; but feeling once again a pressure he didn’t want, he averted his gaze to the horizon. She stepped into his view. Henry stared over her shoulder. Undeterred, Susan tried another sally before finally giving up. “I’m exhausted from what seems my daily ordeal of seasickness. Will you come in with me?”

“I’d like to stay on deck and write.” He extracted his journal from his jacket pocket.

“Well, then, I’ll say good night.”

Henry bowed slightly from the waist, then watched Susan walk to the hatch, feeling guilty for not at least accompanying her that far. He turned up the flame on the lamp hanging from the forward mast and settled into the crook of the bow until his eyes adjusted to the dim light enough so he could read and write. He recorded the day’s sights and events, the cook and his cod the highlight, and then, after a pause for thought and reflection, he recalled Emerson’s admonition—The rude truth, Henry—and began scribbling.

There’s something about Ben. Being around him, even thinking of him now, causes my heart to beat wildly, my breath to come short, my thoughts to cloud. Or is it to clear? Yes, they become clearer, do I dare say the rude truth? I want Ben beside me always
.

As though summoned, Ben appeared before him, illuminated by the mast lamp.

“What’re you doing?”

“Writing.”

“Can I sit with you?”

“Of course.” Henry pocketed his journal.

“Would you mind if I doused the lamp?”

“No, not at all.” Ben leaned over and blew into the chimney, igniting the sky as the flame went out, then squeezed in beside Henry, who said, “I’m so glad I left Concord.”

“I’m glad you left too. God, it’s even more beautiful than last night. So quiet. And all those stars.”

Henry looked up into the clear, brilliant night; his head emptied of thought. His right hand went to Ben’s left knee. Realizing what he’d done, he froze. After what seemed like an hour but might have been mere seconds, Ben laid his hand over Henry’s and too loud, his voice cracking, said, “I love you.”

Henry’s throat constricted.

“I’m sorry,” said Ben, his voice cracking, uncontrolled. “It just came out. . . . I meant to say, I love sitting here with you.”

Henry gulped. “I love sitting here with you. It gives me this unbelievable feeling.”

“You think it’s love?”

“Love?” Henry gulped, frozen with fear.

“What you’re feeling?”

“What I’m feeling? Love? Ho . . . uh.” Henry wanted to bolt. Instead, pretending he needed to stretch, he removed his hand from Ben’s knee, stretched and yawned.

Calm as could be now, Ben said, “I’d say love is the greatest feeling there is. But you know that. That’s what your poem is all about. ‘Yet now am forced to know, though hard it is, I might have loved him had I loved him less.’ ”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“You’re a poet, Henry. And a poet needs a lover.”

“Or the memory of one.”

“That’s easier, isn’t it? Someone like Edmund, who you’ll never see again.”

“Easier? I don’t think that’s easier.”

“And don’t tell me you weren’t in love with him. It’s right there in your poem.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point? It’s easier for you to be in love with Edmund than to be in love with me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

A crescent moon rose and gave light to the black night.

“But it was pure love,” protested Henry.

“As opposed to what, rough love?” said Ben, irony lacing his voice.

“Well, yes. Physical love.”

“So passion’s no good?”

“In the proper place.”

“Don’t tell me the marriage bed.”

Which is exactly what Henry was going to say. “I’m talking about Platonic love, the pure love of the mind.”

Ben’s eyes danced. “You’re my beloved, Henry. And I’m your lover.”

“Now you sound like Stearns.”

“Stearns on the stern.”

“You do have a memory, don’t you?” Ben’s eyes danced more; his smile lifted his face. “Yes, that Stearns,” said Henry.