Thoreau in Love (13 page)

Without a pause, Ben said, “Did I ever tell you how I learned to kiss?”

“Why are you asking this?”

“These girls who lived on the island, they were quite a bit older than me, but they used to take me into their shed to practice kissing. They said I had the most beautiful lips they’d ever seen, and that I kissed like no one they ever kissed. I think I was nine.”

“I’ve never kissed anyone. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. I kissed Ellen, but it was more like kissing my mother. Or my grandmother.”

“Those girls who taught me, they’re the only ones I’ve ever really kissed.”

Henry and Ben looked at each other in silence, then Ben pulled off his red shirt and said, “You want the inside or the outside?” And Henry perked up. “Can I have the inside again?”

6

Hard knocking startled Henry and Ben awake. “I know you’re in there,” shouted the captain. “Get your arse up.”

Ben did exactly that, climbing on Henry to get his arse high in the air and aiming it at the door. The captain stomped away, and Ben pulled on his shirt and went into the hall, leaving Henry once again astonished at the turn his life had taken. On deck, a bell clanged, but instead of ringing clear the sound immediately died. Fog, thought Henry. Every thirty seconds or so another clang sounded and died.

Dahlia
was dead in the water, enshrouded in fog so thick that when Henry opened the hatch to the deck, all he saw was a thick gray soup. No sail, no mast, no boom, not even the deck. Fog poured into the hallway. Behind him, Mrs. Hawke barked, “Close that hatch!”

Henry climbed the soupy steps, closed the hatch, turned toward the bow—and was enveloped in the gray. Slight creaks the only sounds.

Another clang. Tentatively, Henry said, “Ben?”

“Henry?” came Ben’s response. “I’m on the poop with Captain Hawke.”

Henry turned slowly, feeling for something, anything, even the hatch he’d just closed. “I can’t see a thing,” he exclaimed, “not even my hand in front of me.” He brought his hand closer, watching it emerge from the fog six inches from his face.

“Isn’t it amazing?” said Ben. Again the bell clanged and died in the fog. In the distance came a dull clang.

“Take him below, then get your ass to the crow’s nest!”

“Aye, sir,” said Ben. Then, to Henry, “Stay where you are. Keep talking. I’ll be right there.”

Giddy and frightened, slowly waving his arms as if they were feelers, Henry said quietly into the fog, “Ben. Ben. Ben Wickham? Ben?” And after just a few moments Ben’s black eye and smiling face appeared out of the gray, mere inches away, and then his fingers touched Henry’s lips to shush him and then he gently held Henry’s face in his hands.

“Hey,” whispered Henry, thrilled to see Ben, and something of substance. “This is so weird. I didn’t know fog could be like this. Nothing exists, then your face exists, then out of nowhere, fingers come at my face. Then they disappear, then they appear.” They stood with their faces not six inches apart. Scared to have Ben so close to him in public, so to speak, Henry continued his nervous talk. “Look. I can perform magic. I’ve always wanted to perform magic. No fingers. . . .” And then Henry slowly lifted his hands between their faces, “Fingers.”

“You are a magician.”

“I am a magician,” said Henry, and in his quiet exuberance, he turned around, and the world vanished. And terror struck. “God, there’s nothing here.”

Ben reached into the fog and pulled Henry back. “Don’t leave me.”

“I never will,” said Henry. Ben inched closer until his hazel eyes and thin, perfectly arched dark eyebrows and sunken cheeks were framed in gray. Henry felt giddy, ecstatic. Ben’s unseen hands clasped Henry by his sides. He walked invisible fingers up Henry’s arms and moved nearer so they were nose to nose, nose beside nose, cheek to cheek, brushing eyelashes.

“You out there, Wickham?” called the captain, his voice fading before the question was finished.

Ben pulled his face back an inch, turned aside and called in the opposite direction, deliberately muffling his voice, “Bit lost, Cap’n. But I’m getting there.”

“He still with you?”

Turning away from Henry once more, Ben called back, “I don’t see him. Henry? I think he went below.”

Henry jabbed Ben’s side, then bit his own tongue to keep from laughing. The bell clanged, died in the fog.

“Skipper’s pissed I was in your cabin again,” whispered Ben. “Specially cause he knows there’s nothing he can do, you being a passenger. Come with me to the crow’s nest.”

Ben deftly guided Henry under the boom and past neck-wringing lines across the deck they couldn’t see to the rope ladder rising from the starboard gunwale. Except for Ben and the twisted hemp directly before him, Henry couldn’t see a thing, not even the barrels of rum within kicking distance. He felt for the side rail, carefully looked over and couldn’t even hear the water below, much less see it.

“Don’t be afraid. Just climb up after me. Take all the time you need.”

In the distance, a muffled bell rang;
Dahlia
’s bell answered, and died.

“If another ship hits us, wouldn’t we be safer down here?”

“We’re not going to be hit.”

“Wickham! Can you see anything?”

“Climbing now, sir.” Ben began to climb but Henry held him back, saying, “Wait.”

“What?”

“I just wanted to say, you do have beautiful lips.”

Ben broke a huge smile. “Follow me.” He scampered up, leaving Henry literally in a fog of doubt. Not only because he couldn’t see anything, but because he couldn’t quite work out why Ben wanted him in the crow’s nest. He looked up into the dark fog; all he could see was the whiskery hemp rung immediately before his face and the ladder’s soaking-wet side lines disappearing into the murk. Each night on
Dahlia
with Ben had been the best of Henry’s life, but where was he now? Lost in a fog, afraid of what was ahead, afraid of what was behind, afraid of everything. He ascended the slippery hemp ladder, losing his grip and his step as he stumbled up. There was nothing above him, nothing below. The mainmast couldn’t be more than a few feet away, but even squinting he couldn’t see it, only gray fog and inches of wet-dark hemp ladder. He looked aft: nothing but gray. Forward, up. Nothing. Was this ladder attached to anything? His breath quickened. Then, from above, an urgent, “Henry, come quick, you won’t believe it.”

And from the quarterdeck, a muffled, “Did you say something?”

“It’s all clear up here, Captain. I can see for miles!”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing near. Four or five masts to stern and starboard. We’re well away from shore.”

Henry climbed, and as he did the gray grew brighter, and then from above, out of the brightening fog, Ben’s hand appeared, beckoning. At the same time, the fog brightened to blinding white and Henry had to shut his eyes tight. “Come on,” said Ben, but Henry didn’t dare let go of the ladder. “I can’t see. I can’t open my eyes.”

“I’ve got you. Come on.” And Ben did have him, by the scruff of his shirt. His eyes still shut, his hands never letting go of the lines, Henry climbed the ladder until Ben pulled him onto the tiny crow’s nest. Henry squinched his eyes open, shielding them with his right arm from the painfully bright, crystal clear daylight.

“Let me know if anything approaches,” called the captain.

“Aye, sir,” Ben responded. With an arm around Henry’s back, Ben guided Henry’s free hand to the pole between them and said into his ear, “Hold on to the mast.”

Henry gripped it tight. After several attempts to adjust his eyes to the brilliant light, he saw over Ben’s shoulder that the only dark cloud was the one below. He turned to look behind him, but the crow’s nest, a small platform made for one, gave him no room to turn completely. He and Ben did an awkward dance around the mast so that both could take in the whole scene. Low green hills were visible nearby to the south and miles away to the north, and scattered on the nearby green hills below the clear blue sky were blossoming apple orchards and houses with smoke rising from the chimneys. But below, where once there was water, a thick, dark blanket of fog was spread as far as he could see.

“Look,” said Ben. Northwest of them, a young man clung to a mast that seemed at first to be heading east on its own. Then, not far behind him, the fog turned bright orange and thousands of live cinders burst into the air from two unseen stacks; somewhere beneath the mast was a steamboat! The young man waved as his mast, leaving a wake as if the gray mass were water, sliced through the fog.

“He’s crazy to be going at all in fog like this,” said Henry.

“No!” said Ben. “It looks like the most wonderful thing in the world.” He waved to the young man and shouted, “Full speed ahead!”

“What’s that?” called the captain.

“Sorry, sir,” yelled Ben. “Steamboat going full-tilt east.”

“Maniacs,” said the captain.

Henry, terrified for the young man’s—indeed, the entire steamboat’s—safety, remembered Susan’s dream. The young man on the fleeting mast disappeared into the roiling fog as the steamboat sped away. “That’s the difference between us,” said Henry, clinging to the mast. “You’re full speed ahead, regardless of the consequences, while I’m always afraid.”

“You’re getting braver,” said Ben with a smirk. “You’re up here, aren’t you?” He breathed a happy sigh, then looked into Henry’s eyes. “We’re all alone.” Henry glanced nervously from side to side. Blue sky all around, thick gray soup below. Ben grasped Henry by his sides and said, “I can’t wait any longer.”

When they were on deck, Henry thought Ben was going to kiss him. In the fog Henry hoped he would, but up here, in the bright light, not hidden, this was something else. This was his Rubicon. Henry gripped the mast with both hands. Held tight.

“I have to,” said Ben, and then he did the most terrifying thing imaginable. He put his lips to Henry’s lips. And kissed him. And Henry, imitating exactly what Ben did, kissed back. Ben made a funny little chirp and his tongue became part of Henry’s mouth. Henry knew he had to hold Ben. With one hand tight on the mast, his other pulled Ben closer, and then, realizing with the only reason he had left that the mast was firmly between them, his mast hand took Ben and pulled on him, exploring his back and his sides and his shoulders and his neck as their tongues danced around in each other’s mouths.

They stopped for a moment, amazed at what they were doing and the wonderful feeling of knowing they would kiss again. Henry said, “Those girls taught you well.” Ben squirmed to muffle a laugh, and their lips went at it again. Ben pushed his crotch toward Henry, pulling Henry to him, but hard mast was all they felt. Full speed ahead, thought Henry. Then, no, no, danger! Henry pulled back and looked down and saw that the fog was still safely impenetrable.

Ben took Henry’s face in his hands and kissed him again; Henry pulled Ben tight and lost all control, and though his eyes were closed all he saw was pure white light. Ben held Henry by his neck, something no one had ever done, then by his back, then ran his hands up and down Henry’s back and neck and buttocks. Henry wanted more. More of Ben’s mouth. More of Ben’s back, his neck, his sides; wanted their entire bodies to join. Crushed against the mast, they kissed deeply and breathed fiercely, rubbing their crotches against the hard wood. After what might have been a minute or an hour of blissful kissing and breathing hard and going back for more of each other’s mouths and lips and ears and necks, Ben yelped a muffled cry, his body shuddered and his mouth dropped. He held Henry tight.

“Did you?” asked Henry.

Ben nodded and nodded and caught his breath and said, “Oh . . . oh . . . oh God.” And after Ben had recovered his breath, he put his mouth to Henry’s and they kissed again.

“Wickham!” called the captain. Ben pulled away, looked around and called back, “Nothing near, sir.” And Henry, his eyes sparkling, said quietly, “What do you mean, nothing near? The Rubicon. I just crossed the Rubicon.”

“
Alea iacta est
,” said Ben. And kissed Henry again.

Not long after, the fog burned off, and their fair Verona in the sky became just a crow’s nest four-fifths of the way up the mast of a dirty old schooner. The captain went ballistic.

Screaming, “Down, down, get outta there! Get down here!” he tore over to the bottom of the ladder and continued his screaming. And when Ben, descending the rope ladder, got to within arm’s length the captain grabbed his leg and pulled, screaming still, totally berserk. Ben fought and the captain pulled, screaming, “Down, an order, get down here!” Henry nearly fell he was so nervous. He’d never heard anyone scream like that. The captain yanked and Ben fell to the deck and the captain pummeled him and then grabbed a loose line and began to flail the cowering Ben, on his back, on his arms, his legs, his face, calling him “little bastard” and “shit” and “I’ll teach you.” Henry dropped to the deck, screaming “Stop! No!” But the captain, in an insane rage of strength, shoved Henry so he flew into several of the sailors gathered round, who restrained him. The captain kept whaling Ben until Gale spread the gathered crowd and gave her husband a quick fist to the kidney, collapsing him onto the deck, where he writhed in pain. Standing over him, she commanded, “Now get up and sail this damned ship.”