Thoreau in Love (11 page)

“I don’t know. . . . But it was his razor.”

“You think he did it on purpose?”

“On purpose?”

“On Block Island, an old man I knew took his razor to his wrist, did himself in. They said he was in terrible pain with his stomach.”

“I . . . I hadn’t thought . . . or maybe I had but just didn’t want to think about that. John was always so happy . . . John was the one everyone loved. John did everything right.”

“Maybe he was really unhappy. I mean, I know everyone thinks because I smile all the time that I’m always happy, but I’m not. Sometimes I’m so sad I have to smile or I’ll just. . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.”

“Wow. Really? You do always seem so . . . happy.”

“Being around you makes me happy. You make me feel, I don’t know, like there’s something inside me. Like I’m worthwhile. Oh, but now I’m getting sad. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up—”

“No, I’m glad you did. You make me feel that way. And maybe John was like that. Not really as happy as he seemed. . . . But, you know what? Even if he did do it on purpose, I know he wished he hadn’t. But when he found out it was lockjaw, he just accepted that he was going to die.” Henry sucked in and let out a deep breath. And Ben smiled his beautiful smile. Henry reached over and touched Ben’s bottom lip. “I love your smile. It’s so, I don’t know, life affirming. But God, now I can’t keep my brother out of my mind.”

“Go on, tell me.”

“I’ve never seen anyone suffer so. It’s not like you’re in a fever. Delirious or anything. It’s like everything’s fine, and then all of a sudden all his muscles would contract and he’d bend up like a horseshoe turned inside out, his stomach up, so his feet and his head almost touched. I thought he’d break his back. Or else he’d all tighten up and thrash and thrash and scream with pain. And then that stupid smile when his jaw locked up. I held him when he died. When he took his last breath. God, he struggled. Even if he started out intending to, he struggled so just to take the smallest breath. He knew. Life’s desperate struggle. He knew he’d taken his last breath. And his throat closed. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. Absolute, utter terror. And that stupid lockjaw grin on his face.”

Henry sucked in another breath, trying not to cry. “I didn’t think I’d ever get over his death. He was the only one really knew who I was.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“It’s okay,” said Ben, and he crawled beside Henry and held him. And Henry wept, not just for his brother, but more because no one had ever treated him as warmly, as lovingly as Ben. “I can’t believe you’re just sitting here, holding me,” said Henry. And Ben squeezed him tighter. And took out his snot rag and gave it to Henry, who wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

“There’s something about you, Henry Thoreau. I’ve met plenty of people, but never anyone like you. You have the fate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have the moon and the stars in you. I can see the universe in your eyes. In the daylight they’re gray, but at night they turn silver and glow, like they’re lit from within.”

“I’m odd-looking; that’s what everyone says.”

“Not everyone, Henry. When I first saw you, I thought, Oh Lord, he’s handsome. I hope he’s one of our passengers.”

Henry wanted to say that Ben was the real universe, but he feared that if he did it would sound like one compliment in exchange for another. So instead he asked Ben, “Would you like me to read you some poems I translated from the Greek?” and reached into his duffel bag and pulled out folded papers and read Ben several poems, ending with a ribald lyric about a man’s love for a boy.

“What is that one?” said Ben? “I didn’t know there were poems like that.”

“I thought you’d like that. There are lots of them. But translators always change one of the he’s to a she before they publish it.”

“Let me see them?”

Henry handed Ben his prized possessions, and Ben pored over them. “This is amazing. God, I can’t believe the Greeks wrote such things.”

As Ben silently read the poems, he kept adjusting himself in his trousers, which in turn excited Henry. Then, without emotion, Ben said. “I’m ready to turn in. You?”

It was what Henry had been waiting for. “I get the inside.” Before Ben could move, Henry scooched his legs under the covers and was against the wooden hull, facing out. Now cheerful, Ben said, “Okay.” He pulled off his shirt and climbed under the covers, and Henry wrapped his arm around Ben’s naked chest. “I love when you touch me,” said Ben, and pushed his bum into Henry’s crotch. Henry couldn’t believe he was in bed again with Ben, holding him close. Although he was aroused, he didn’t want to risk ruining the moment by making any moves, even when Ben wriggled his bottom so it enveloped Henry’s stiff shaft. “You’re nice and warm,” said Henry, pulling Ben closer, reveling in his slightly acrid scent, his soft skin, how Ben’s stomach rose and fell against his arm with each breath. Lulled by the ship’s motion and a happiness he’d rarely felt, Henry fell into a deep sleep.

5

The next afternoon, they anchored briefly in New London to drop off and pick up freight from a scow and take on a passenger who was a regular on this run. Drunk as could be, the rotund little man sang merrily the whole way he was being rowed in a dinghy, once standing in crescendo and nearly falling overboard. With much laughter, the crew hoisted him on board. He sloppily kissed everyone who helped before they deposited him in his cabin.

But where was Ben? Henry hadn’t seen him all day. Cook had served breakfast, which Henry thought strange but didn’t dare ask about.

As they were sailing down the Thames River, Henry and Susan stood on deck, taking in the sights. The fair winds turned from westerly to blowing mild from the south, and just after Henry commented on that, he and Susan were flying through the fair winds as
Dahlia
, groaning, screeching, creaking, came to a sudden halt. Banged but not bruised, they collected themselves and got up to see what had happened.

They’d run aground on a sandbar the captain swore and swore hadn’t been there the week before. Attempts were made to get the ship off the bar, but
Dahlia
was stuck until the falling tide rose again.

Being grounded was a lot of work. The sails had to be taken down and the masts supported with extra lines to relieve the stress of gravity. Briefly, Henry saw Ben among the sailors securing the ship, but Ben didn’t give Henry so much as a glance. And then he disappeared. Befuddled at Ben’s behavior, Henry went to his cabin to get his journal, then decided instead to lie down. He climbed to Ben’s bunk and fell fast asleep. He awoke when the cabin shifted to a steep angle and he tumbled against the wooden hull. Thinking he could have been badly hurt if the ship had gone the other way, he carefully climbed up into the hall and then to the deck, where, even though the cargo was secured, he didn’t feel safe. Clinging to whatever he could, he crossed to the bow and inserted himself into his now steeply inclined crook, atop the jumble of lines.

Dahlia
kept shifting and creaking and shuddering. Several sailors ran a taut line from the bow to the poop deck so the crew could get from one end to the other. From aft, Susan called to Henry. He put his journal in his jacket pocket and half rose to go to her.

“Stay there,” she yelled. “I want to see if I can get to you.” Using the help line, she tried walking the deck, but after a few steps gave up. “Maybe you had better come here.” Following a sailor’s example, Henry grabbed the line and fairly glided across the deck. A steamboat passed by, repeatedly blowing its whistle in mockery, its passengers gathered at the rail to point and laugh. Henry waved back. Even the seagulls seemed to be mocking
Dahlia
’s plight.

As soon as he’d made it aft, Susan glanced furtively around, then leaned in toward Henry, lowering her voice. “Captain Hawke, does he seem strange to you? Clearly he loathes his wife, yet he hangs on every word of his cabin boy. I think he’s a pederast.”

“A pederast?” Henry flushed. “But he’s married.”

“I’m telling you, Henry. I’ve seen it before. Yesterday, Mrs. Hawke was passed out on rum by two in the afternoon. The captain called for the boy, and the two of them went into his cabin, which abuts mine. First I heard sounds, as if someone was being beaten, and then, well, other sounds. Private sounds.”

“Private sounds?” said Henry, his voice cracking.

“Don’t feign ignorance, Henry. You know what I’m talking about.”

Henry blushed.

“If I were you, Henry, I’d be careful of that boy.”

“Careful of Ben? Why?”

“I don’t trust him. But don’t you think it’s appalling that this tub, as Mrs. Hawke calls it, was hers, left to her by her father, and just by marrying him it becomes his?”

“Yes, I do,” said Henry, glad for the change of subject. “Margaret Fuller’s been going on about that for years.”

“I wish I’d gotten to meet Margaret. She sounds fascinating.”

“She’s quite a character. Brilliant. And quite impatient with anyone who can’t keep up with her. She can be harsh.”

“She doesn’t suffer fools.”

“No she does not.”

“I applaud that. Would I were more like that.”

“Now that’s where you need confidence. You’re a lot stronger and more forthright than you give yourself credit for.”

Susan smiled a thanks, then, looking out at the water before them, took a deep breath. “It’s a pleasure not to be sick.”

“I’m sure,” said Henry. Then, surveying their situation, he suggested they sit on the poop’s port gunwale and lean back against the inclined deck. Susan laughed and plopped down as if she were a young girl and dangled her legs overboard. Henry made sure to sit aft of Susan, so he could nonchalantly look past her for Ben. But Ben was nowhere to be seen. It was a lovely, warm day and seemed more like they were sitting on a riverbank than in the river, grounded. But after a while, Henry couldn’t take the peace and serenity. He excused himself and climbed up the deck to the skyward gunwale, wondering, as he had all morning, Did I say something that offended him? Was Ben insulted because I said I wouldn’t write novels? He loves Fenimore Cooper. Did I do something in the night? Did my hand go where it shouldn’t have?

As the afternoon dragged on, Henry became more and more agitated, so much so that he wished he could make the seagulls shut up. At last the tide turned, but it would take hours to break free of the bar.
Dahlia
creaked and groaned.
Dahlia
, thought Henry. What a stupid name for this stupid boat. “
Dung Heap
would have been more apropos.” Trying to distract himself, he traversed the inclined deck. When dinner was announced, he swung like a monkey into the hatchway to the cabins and clumsily through the hall to the captain’s cabin, where the captain had stupidly insisted that supper be served. He planned to get two bowls of stew and make his way back to Susan, who said she didn’t dare go below.

Propped at odd angles in the cabin were the captain and Mrs. Hawke—and Ben! With a black eye. Henry couldn’t help himself. Excitedly, he leaped down into the captain’s cabin and said, “Are you all right? What happened to your eye? Where’ve you been?”

“I’m fine,” said Ben flatly. “Got bumped is all. And I’ve been where I always am.”

Henry didn’t get it. “But where were you all day?”

“Doing my duties.”

Chastened, Henry took his bowl and tried sitting in different spots, until he settled into the angle where the floor met the bulkhead, where he could eat and keep an eye on Ben.

Supper was difficult. The distracted captain went from brooding silence to fist-pounding outbursts of, “Wasn’t there last week!” and “Where in hell did it come from?” Not helping were Gale’s quiet imprecations: “Daddy never once went aground,” and “That’s what you get.” That’s what you get for what, she never said.

Henry tried to engage Ben, with his eyes and by asking him questions about his day, but Ben wasn’t there for him. Finally, feeling guilty that Susan was on deck, waiting for her supper, Henry asked Ben for a bowl of stew and a slice of bread for her. “Sure,” said Ben, with a bit of warmth. When he handed Henry the bowl and their fingers touched, Ben’s lower lip fell into a smile.

Henry, thrilled, said, “Let me climb up into the hall first, then you can hand it to me.”

Again Ben turned cold. “Whatever you wish,” he said.

Still on the poop deck, Susan playfully bounced her legs over the side. “Thank you, Henry,” she said, taking the bowl of steaming stew. “I don’t know why it is, but I keep feeling like a little girl I’m so happy.” Henry sat beside her. Noting his glum expression, she said, “Is something wrong?”

“I thought we were making such good progress,” said Henry, “and now, stuck.”

“It’s so like life, isn’t it?”

“Too much like life,” said Henry. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to go lie down.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.” Back below, he climbed from the inclined hallway down through his open doorway and realized the only place he could sit was on the bottom bunk with his back to the hull, in the dark. From the hall above he heard the sound of plates being stacked, and Mrs. Hawke saying, “I’m not moving till we right.”