Thoreau in Love (39 page)

Inside the large, decoratively tiled vestibule, soaking-wet black and gray business coats hung from hooks, dripping water into puddles on the tile floor. Two umbrella stands were chock full, and all manner of top hats and bowlers were racked on the wall. The door was bolted behind him. “Let me take your coat and hat,” said the old black man, and before Henry could say a word his jacket was off and hung on one of the few remaining hooks. He kept tight hold of his hat, not that it could ever be confused with any of the others. The old black man opened the door to the hall, and a sweet scent wafted into Henry’s face. “Yes. I’m looking for a young man staying here. Ben Wickham?”

A colorful, floral-patterned French carpet covered the floor and rose up the beautifully painted stairs to the right. A simple but elegant newel post swirled dark walnut up the handrail, while lush vines climbed pale wallpaper. Henry had never seen such high ceilings. The large, cream-colored door to his left, which obviously led to the front parlor, was closed. At the far end of the hall, a windowed door let in light, as did windows on the stairway. Henry wiped his boots on the bristly hemp mat and stepped onto the carpet, overwhelmed—and terrified.

The old Negro opened the door to the front parlor, took a step in and nodded for Henry to follow. “May I take your hat, please.”

“Oh, yes, sure,” said Henry, tentatively entering the parlor and giving over his dripping-wet hat.

In the sun-lighted parlor, the same colorful French carpet covered the floor with all manner of bursting flowers. Across the huge room an ornate, gilt-framed mirror rose from a black marble mantelpiece to a wildly painted ceiling molding that had to be twelve feet from the floor. Hanging from an ornate medallion in the center of the ceiling was a two-tiered gas chandelier. Scattered in three separate sitting areas that didn’t even fill the room were all manner of beautifully colored silk sofas and chairs. Henry James’s house seemed paltry compared with this. Gossamer curtains diffused the bright sunlight coming in the huge windows. The drapes were tied back. Gilt-framed paintings hung on the pale walls papered with some sort of silk fabric. Through immense paneled pocket doors that must have led to a back parlor, Henry heard the tinkling of a piano. “What is this place?” What is Ben doing here?

“Please, come in and make yourself comfortable,” said the old black man as he cracked open the pocket doors. The rear parlor was dark, foreboding, increasing Henry’s anxiety as he wondered if Ben would even want to see him. “If you need anything, just ask for Chester.”

Chester slid open the pocket doors just enough for Henry to squeeze through, which he did, and stepped into night. Table lamps glowed dimly in the rear parlor; not a sliver of light came in the heavily draped windows. Several girls in brightly colored dresses sat on sofas and in chairs, chatting and giggling with one another. A young black boy played a tune Henry hadn’t heard on a highly polished square piano.

“Hi there,” said a pretty young girl with auburn hair, wearing a blue dress that seemed a bit too sophisticated for her years. Henry nodded. The girls smiled and nodded at Henry. One gave a flirtatious bat of her eyes, which made Henry a bit more uncomfortable, so he looked at the gilt-framed painting nearest him, and realized that the frolicking subjects in the painting were beautiful naked youths, and that all their phalluses were erect. Henry flushed, never having seen such a thing, and his cock uncontrollably grew. He covered himself with his hands. One of the girls tittered, and then the rest joined in a group giggle. Henry was sure they were giggling at him. Saying under his breath, “Please hurry, Ben,” he pretended to study the carpet when in truth he was peeking at the girls, two of whom were adjusting their skirts.

Even in the dim light, Henry could see that the girls had heavily rouged faces. The girl in the canary yellow dress stretched out her legs, very unladylike, and her yellow covered knees began shaking back and forth, the way boys’ knees do when they lose all control, and Henry saw that she had a bulge that seemed more appropriate for a pair of pants than a dress.

Hermaphrodite? thought Henry. The girl took hold of the canary yellow bulge and moved it so it didn’t stick out so much. Henry coughed nervously, looked discreetly from one girl to the next, then at the painting above the lamp-lighted mantle piece, which also seemed to be naked, erect young men, though he couldn’t be sure without looking closer, which he wasn’t about to do, and then the side door opened and a voice from the hall went, “Hee-hee-hee-hee,” and a pair of short arms followed by a rotund body entered, and who was it, on tiptoes, his tongue hanging out, leaning forward as if he was falling, but Mr. Manning. Henry stood stunned as Mr. Manning, not seeing Henry, made a beeline to the blonde girl in the yellow dress, saying, “Pussums, Pussums,” as he did.

“Mr. Manning,” said Henry, thinking now he must be in a dream.

The piano player laid into a jingly-jangly version of
Home! Sweet Home!
John Manning stopped short, glared at Henry and said fiercely, “What is it you want of me?”

“I . . . nothing, I just, from the boat, I wanted to say hello. I saw you this morning, we were on
Dahlia
together.”

“Oh, well, hello,” said John Manning. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He graciously offered the girl in the yellow dress his hand, which she took. He helped her up, and arm-in-arm they went out the side door. And at that same moment, bright light flooded the room as the pocket doors behind Henry opened wide. Henry turned, was blinded. One of the girls seated behind him, in a not very girly voice, bellowed, “Shut the goddamn door, would you?” One door rolled shut, and a silhouette before him said, “Sorry. Come this way, please, sir.” Thinking, Ben won’t see me, Henry went into the sun-bright front parlor, covering his eyes and squinting as he did. The pretty young woman in the tight-bodice lavender dress held out her hand. “I’m Timothy. May I help you?”

Strange name for a girl, thought Henry as he shook hands and said, “I told, uh, Chester, I’m looking for Ben Wickham.”

“There’s no one here by that name. None of the other girls interest you?”

“Excuse me? Is this? Pardon my ignorance, but is this some sort of brothel?”

“Well, yes.”

“This is the Maidenhead?” Timothy nodded, and over his shoulder Henry caught sight of another painting, this one of a bearded man inserting his erect organ into a youth’s anus. Airily, Henry said, “This is where Ben said he’d be staying.” And then, to Timothy, “Ben Wickham? Tall, thin, wild, light brown hair?” As he spoke he saw that the girl before him had what seemed very much to be a shaved face. Totally befuddled and wanting to leave, to somehow get his bearings, Henry said, “No? Well, if he does arrive, could you please tell him that Henry, Henry Thoreau, came and very much wants to speak with him?”

“Henry? You’re Henry?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry. We assumed you were the captain. Ben told me all about you.”

“Ben told you? So Ben is here?”

“No. He left. Day before yesterday.”

“Where did he go?”

“You really are Henry?”

“Well, yes.”

“Where did Ben see you last?”

Perplexed, Henry said, “On Staten Island?”

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to make sure. Ben was so afraid of Captain Hawke. He went to St. Louis.”

Henry’s heart dropped. “St. Louis? Oh my Lord.”

“Oh, no,” said Timothy. “You came here to be with him.”

“I’ve got to sit down,” said Henry, and he did, on the upholstered love seat.

Timothy sat beside him. “Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry.”

Devastated, Henry dropped his head between his knees. And then Timothy said, “Every day he hoped you’d appear.”

Henry turned angrily to Timothy, “No, don’t tell me that.”

“I’m afraid so. He was crushed. He so wanted to be with you.”

“I know. I know. When? When did he leave?”

“Day before yesterday. One of our fortnightly men—”

“What is this place?”

“I told you, it’s a brothel.”

“But you’re not a girl.”

Timothy chirped a laugh of understanding. “No, I’m not. None of us are, Henry. It’s a boy brothel.”

“A what? I didn’t know there were such things,” said Henry, but then thought, Or maybe I did. And said, “Back in Roman times, yes. But I didn’t know there still were.... But why are you dressed as girls?”

“I guess many of the men who come here don’t want to think they’re with a boy, until they’re down to it, of course.”

“I’m sorry. You were saying? This man who came here...?”

“The duke. Yes. Though before he was a duke, he said he was a minister, so who knows what he is. Charlatan is what I think. Two days ago he swept in here, announced that he was in fact the Duke of Bridgewater, that he was going to St. Louis, and did anyone care to accompany him.”

“Ben went with him?”

“He did. I tried to convince him the duke was a fraud, but he said he didn’t care. He was afraid Captain Hawke would find him if he stayed.
Dahlia
’s due in port tomorrow.”

“How could I have been so stupid?” said Henry. Timothy put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I was afraid, pure and simple.” Henry shook his head in disgust, then was illuminated by a thought: “Maybe I could find him. They only left two days ago? How were they traveling?”

“I have no idea. Maybe by boat to New Orleans. Maybe canal barge or stage. He’s gone.”

“Oh my Lord.” Henry again shook his head in despair. Then said in a weak voice, “He spoke of me?”

“You’re all he ever talked about. He wanted to go out to Staten Island to see you again. I encouraged him, but so many of the other boys said he couldn’t do that, that it would crush him even worse if he did, that he didn’t. I’ve never seen anyone so crushed.”

“What have I done? Lord help me, what have I done?” His gut felt so empty it ached, and Henry, trying to relieve the pain, again collapsed into himself, to where he held his head in his hands between his knees. He couldn’t believe Ben was gone. “No, no, no,” he said. Timothy put a comforting arm across his shoulders. But Henry wasn’t to be comforted. He rose with a thought and said to a disbelieving Timothy, “He’s really not here?”

“No, Henry. He’s not here. I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

Not knowing what else to do, Henry sat again. After a moment, Timothy, apparently making conversation, said, “Ben said you went to Harvard.” Henry’s gaze rose up the lavender silk to the pretty young man looking down at him. Absently, he said, “Yes. Harvard.”

“I’m a Princeton man myself,” said Timothy, and laughed. “Well, a Princeton something.”

“Truly?”

“Class of ’42.”

A bell rang upstairs, and someone called down, “Halls of Justice!” Immediately the piano stopped and there was a rustling as the boys in colorful skirts and dresses pushed back the pocket doors and came running through the front parlor, holding their hair and shielding their eyes on their way to the stairs. The straggler, a girl in a maroon dress, grabbed for Timothy and said, “A hanging, Timothy!”

“A hanging?” said Henry.

“Have you ever seen one?” asked Timothy excitedly, pulling Henry out into the hall. Giggling boys in brightly-colored skirts and dresses ran up the stairs.

“The rumors are true what happens,” said Timothy, raising his index finger up as if it was an erection. “And now the rain’s stopped, there’s a good place to watch from the roof.” Timothy pulled Henry along. On the floors above more boys in brightly colored dresses leaned over the railings and called to the floors above, “Get a move on, we’re going to miss it!” And in among the brightly-dressed boys were young men and older men, all well-dressed in somber business attire, all excited to get up on the roof.

A third of the way up the first flight of stairs, still in the jam of boys, Henry pulled his arm out of Timothy’s grasp and said, “I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m going to leave.”

“We don’t have to watch it. We could sit in the parlor.”

“No, thank you. I’ll just leave.”

All pleasantry gone, Timothy said, “Suit yourself,” lifted his skirts and ran up the stairs. Henry went into the vestibule, found his soggy straw hat and soaking jacket in among the beautiful rain coats and top hats and bowlers, and left. Outside, he could hear the excited crowds on all the nearby roofs. But then the sky blackened and the rains began again. Hoping it would be easier going east, he did, but the water so flooded everything that he took shelter on a wooden porch under an overhang. For more than an hour he stood or sat and dozed off, hoping the downpour would abate. Apparently, the rains and flooding were so bad that he was the only one out. But then down a ways someone came leaping towards him through the flooded street. And then the bundled figure came up the steps to the porch, shook himself out, removed his drooping hat and said, “Henry?” It was Giles. They greeted each other warmly.

“Come in, come in. This is where I live. What are you doing in the city?”

For a moment, Henry was stumped, but then he remembered his story and said, “I came to sell magazines. But, needless to say. . . .”

“Peddle magazines? No, I can’t imagine you doing that. But it’s astonishing, isn’t it, that you should end up here at my boarding house. People always say New York is just a small town, and maybe it’s true. But, come in, let’s dry ourselves. Have you ever seen such rain?”

Henry hadn’t.

“Did you know I’d been up to see Emerson?”

Henry hadn’t. “When his wife was away. Oh, we had a good time. Every day we went into the woods. Henry’s woods, he called them.”

They went up to Giles’s room and changed into some of his dry clothes. Water ran from the ceiling into a bucket they emptied every 10 or so minutes. All through the afternoon and into the evening, the rains continued and Giles talked. And talked. And talked. Henry was so stupefied by his loss of Ben that he couldn’t keep up with whatever it was Giles went on and on about. Here and there he dozed as Giles droned on. The rains didn’t stop until late in the evening, and the flooding was so bad Henry stayed the night, though he barely slept on the hard wooden floor.

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