Thoreau in Love (18 page)

Back on the Broad Way, Henry took a horse-drawn omnibus up to 42nd Street. At the end of the line he walked east to the Croton Reservoir, the massive stone structure he’d seen from
Dahlia
. Stretching from Sixth to Fifth Avenue and from 42
^nd
to 40
^th
Street, its walls were 50-feet high and 25-feet thick. At its base, Henry looked up in wonder, and got dizzy. He leaned against the towering granite wall, unable to believe that it could be filled with water. There wasn’t a leak or a drip to be seen. He took off up the stairs, proudly passing all the malingering New Yorkers, to the walkway at the top. Indeed, the reservoir was filled with water, twenty-million gallons of water that arrived by a system of underground pipes and aqueducts from a dammed river 41 miles away. The walkway afforded spectacular views: green hills, majestic rivers, the burgeoning city, ships and islands everywhere. As he scanned the vista he wished Ben was by his side. And then, across the way he thought he saw Ben. His breath caught in his chest.

But it wasn’t Ben. And it was time to return to the Snuggery.

Saturday afternoon, Haven followed Henry up to the attic. Unlike the rest of the household, three-year-old Haven was unbridled, filled with curiosity. As Henry sat at his desk, Haven roamed the room, asking “Wha’s’is?” about each thing he picked off the table or dug out of Henry’s sack. He held up the microscope Henry had been given as a going-away present. “Wha’s’is?”

“That’s a microscope,” said Henry. “Give it here and I’ll show you what it can do.” Haven did, and Henry put a drop of water from the pitcher atop his bureau on a glass slide he then fixed under the lens. He set the mirror to reflect the window light into the lens, lifted Haven onto his lap and showed him how to look into the scope. After several attempts, Haven succeeded.

“Squigglies!” he exclaimed, pointing to the eyepiece.

“Squigglies, eh? I’ll show you squigglies.”

Henry tickled Haven, sending the boy into gales of laughter. Soon Haven squirmed onto the floor, squealing in delight. Henry threatened with wriggling fingers and said, “Little squigglies coming to get you,” and Haven crumpled up in laughter. But then Henry wanted to get to work, and Haven was nowhere near finished. How do I do this, thought Henry, without hurting his feelings? Either torture him till he wants to leave or just tell him and see where that gets me.

“Time to go, Master Haven. I must get to work.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy dutifully, frowning in disappointment.

“Don’t worry, you can come back later. Can you tell time?” Haven shook his head no. “Well, ask Mary to tell you when an hour’s up, and then come back.”

“How much is an hour?” Haven lifted three fingers. “This much?”

“A little more than that. Now go to Mary.”

Henry accompanied his charge to the stairs, then watched as Haven, holding tight to the banister, clumsily descended one small step at a time. He thought of little Waldo, the light of Emerson’s life, whom Henry had adored and who’d adored Henry. “I won’t let your excitement die,” he said quietly to Haven’s back. “Not if I can help it.”

Henry took out the note from Ben, read it again, and glowed.
Being without you is like a knife in my heart
. He hid the note in the middle of his original copy of “The Landlord,” then took out the draft of “A Winter’s Walk,” one of the essays he’d immersed himself in after John’s death. Hoping to get it to Waldo for the next issue of
The Dial
, Henry set to work.

Sunday Henry stayed in bed, partly because the phlegmy cough he lived with had returned, and partly because he knew the Emersons would be upset that he didn’t go to church. But that afternoon he was cheered by the return of the chimney swifts. Hundreds of the little creatures, their pointy wings swept back, darted through the air, around and around, up and down, their rapid
cheep-cheep-cheep
s filling the air as if they were telegraphing Mr. Morse.

Over the next week, Henry settled into a routine of tutoring, writing at his little desk and walking the island. By Friday he was feeling much better, especially because he’d received a note back from Giles Waldo, who told Henry to meet him and Will Tappan at their office the next day.

Saturday morning bloomed bright and cool, perfect for the three-plus mile walk to the ferry. Henry was excited by the prospect of meeting his first real New Yorkers. As if he were on springs, he bounced down the Richmond road, and after a short wait he boarded a ferry at the lower dock.

Will and Giles worked as clerks at The Mercantile Agency, a new kind of business Will’s father’s had started, which rated the credit-worthiness of banks and businesses. Dressed like young sophisticates in dark-gray waistcoats and dove-gray trousers and vests, Will was tall, elegant and reserved, while Giles was stout and boisterous. Giles insisted they go to an English alehouse. “Isn’t it rather early for that?” said Henry, who didn’t like to drink. “It’s not yet noon.” He wondered if there wasn’t someplace else. Giles went on about what a terrific place it was, whereupon the elegant Will, who’d been on the fence, said, “What the heck? Let’s go,” and won Henry over.

The alehouse was just off the Broad Way; they ordered tankards and stood at the bar, Giles in the middle with his back to the bar, Henry and Will each with a foot on the brass rail, toasting Emerson and each other. Being with Will and Giles made Henry feel so grown up, so a part of the city, the urbane young man on the town.

Inside the package Giles got from Henry was a note from Waldo saying he thought the poems Giles had submitted to
The Dial
were publishable. Henry immediately became envious and started interrogating Giles and Will, also an aspiring writer, about their academic credentials and what books they’d read. And reeled off book after book they’d never heard of but which they certainly should have read if they wanted to be writers. He made them feel very small, but then Giles started laughing off Henry’s gibes, saying, “I’m certain you’re not meaning to be cruel.”

“Have I been thoughtless?” asked Henry.

“You are the Wild Man of the Woods,” said Giles. “Emerson warned us. But we’re the wild men of the city, right Will?”

Henry, disarmed, lifted his tankard. “I am so sorry. Here’s to your poems, and their future in
The Dial
.”

Will then wondered aloud why anyone so famous as Emerson would be friendly with him, which took Henry aback.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” said Henry, who was quite taken with Will. “You’re handsome and intelligent. You carry yourself well.”

“You embarrass me, Henry,” said Will, blushing.

Giles elbowed Henry gently. “Will is easily embarrassed. That’s one of the things we like about him, right Will? Always turning red. There, watch. See? All the way down his neck.”

“What do you expect when you talk about me that way?” Lifting his tankard to Henry, Will said, “Emerson says you’re a very talented writer.”

Feeling his oats as well as his hops, Henry said, “As I’m sure you both understand, I’m hoping to make my career here.”

“How does one make a career in writing?” asked Giles. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. Emerson, for example. Does he make money from his writing?”

“More from lecturing,” said Henry.

“Is that what you hope to do?” asked Will.

“First I must establish a reputation, get some of my writings in the
Tribune
or
Harper’s
. Maybe take a job as an editor.”

“Is it that easy?”

“I guess I’ll find out soon enough.” Henry smiled broadly and locked eyes with Will, who smiled diffidently, blushed and looked at the floor. When Henry realized he was wishing Giles wasn’t there, he became self-conscious, embarrassed. Giles, oblivious to it all, plowed on. “What about Mr. Morse’s telegraph? I think it’s going to change everything.”

Will raised his eyes. “My father says Congress is wasting our money putting telegraph wires between Baltimore and Washington.”

“Your father’s a Luddite,” said Giles. “And you should be careful not to take on his ways as your own.”

“He’s not a Luddite. He’s an Abolitionist. And he’s your employer.”

“I know that.”

“And he’s all for the railroads.”

“He wasn’t till he rode on one.”

“You’re always so dismal about my father.”

“What would he do if he knew you were here?”

As Henry observed this exchange he kept his gaze on Will, whom he found handsome with his wavy hair and pale complexion. Even when he wasn’t actually speaking, his reserved silence held Henry’s attention.

“But enough about your father,” said Giles. “You know I love your father and your crazy uncle. But what about you, Henry? What are your thoughts on Morse’s telegraph?”

“Truth be told, I know very little about it,” said Henry.

“I only heard about it last week,” admitted Will.

“You boys,” said Giles, grabbing them by their shoulders and shaking. “It’s been around for years.”

“I’ve yet to ride a railroad,” said Henry.

“Railroads are dead!” said Giles. “That’s slang from the slums. Something’s dead—”

“When it’s the best there is,” said Henry.

“I’ll drink to that.” Giles downed a big slug of ale. “We must show Henry the Five Points.”

“Only if he wishes to get killed,” said Will.

“It’s not so dangerous as that. Unless you’re a pansy.” Henry flushed, and Giles quickly changed the subject. “But, Henry, you’ve never ridden the rails?”

“Those steam goliaths? Never. But I want to, even if they are destroying the peace and quiet of the countryside.”

“Steam goliaths,” said Giles. “That’s brilliant!”

As Henry took to Will, so Giles took to Henry; whatever Henry said, Giles repeated and called “brilliant,” flattering Henry no end and making him feel almost as if he actually did have the grit to grind up Manhattan, as Ellery had said.

For every tankard Will drank, Giles finished two or three, and though Henry only sipped at his ale, unused to drinking as he was, he became as loud and boisterous as his companions. Eventually, the conversation turned to religion and if there really was a hell. Henry took Will by the arm and said, “Tell me right here and now, Will. Tell me. You think, down there, down, down, far below us, souls are burning?” Henry’s left arm went around Will’s shoulder. “Devils yelping, stoking the flames? Do you really think so?” Henry dropped his arm to Will’s side. “Come on, Will?” Will looked down at the hand that had him in a hold and then back to Henry, who, sensing a chill breeze blowing, stepped back and let go of Will. And thought, See what Ben’s done to me? Made me think I can touch Will at will. He snickered at his unspoken pun.

“Come, Henry,” said Giles before Will could take further offense. “Let us in on the joke.”

“Just a foolish thought,” said Henry.

“Do tell us,” urged Giles.

“Since you insist. I was chiding myself for thinking I could touch Will at will.”

“Touch Will at will. Brilliant,” said Giles. Putting an arm around Henry’s shoulder and laughing, he began to dance a jig. “Look,” he said, making fun of Will’s reticence. “I can touch Henry at will, Will.”

To Henry’s great relief, Will loosened up and joined him and Giles in grabbing arms, thighs and shoulders for emphasis as they went about solving the ills and Wills of the world. Until Will, coming a bit to his senses after a sobering statement by Henry, said, “Henry, wait a second. Stop, stop. Did you just say . . . you don’t go to church?”

“Why would I go to church? This is my church. Well, not this barroom . . . but why not this barroom? In church, they preach about the next world, but don’t they also say that this is God’s world?”

“He has a point there, Will,” said Giles. “Don’t you agree?”

“It’s not brilliant?” countered Will.

That halted Henry and Giles, but only for a moment.

“Brilliant, Will. That’s brilliant.”

The three of them burst into laughter. Unstoppable now, Henry said, “And if this is God’s world, the world God made in his own image, shouldn’t we worship this ale? This waistcoat? Or you, Will? Giles? Our barman here? I can’t imagine why anyone would need to attend church. Do you?”

“If I didn’t, my father would have my arse.”

Mockingly, Henry scolded him. “Will, your language.”

“And a lovely arse it is,” said Giles. The three again burst into laughter.

“Truly,” said Henry. “What would your father do?”

“I’m sure he’d cut me off, for one thing. Throw me out of the house.”

“For not going to church?”

Will nodded sadly. “My father’s one of the few who truly does live by the church’s teachings.”

“You can’t give up so easily,” said Henry. “The fight’s all that counts. If we don’t struggle, we might as well be dead. Look at your father. The abolition of slavery is a pipe dream. People hate the Abolitionists, but still he fights.”

“If we don’t struggle,” said Giles, “we might as well be dead. Henry, that’s—”

“Brilliant!” they shouted in unison.

Henry was having a rollicking time. As morning turned to afternoon, more ale was consumed, and he and Will touched more and more, until they were so tipsy they were holding each other up.