Thoreau in Love (38 page)

19

Henry walked numbly through the next day, over and over going through his days with Ben, especially the last day, wishing he could redo it, say and do what he wished instead of what he’d actually said and done. Every time he heard the stage rumbling up the Richmond road, he hoped it would stop and that Ben would appear. In class the next morning he sat dozing like a dunce as Mary chalked painful screechy scratches on the blackboard. 1+1=2. The 2 that no longer was. And 1–1=0. The 0 that he was. Without realizing, he said, “Let’s go to Concord. That’s what I should write him.”

“My daddy’s going to Concord,” said Willie.

“He is, isn’t he?” said Henry. “Tomorrow morning.”

After lessons, such as they were, Henry wrote a note to Ben, saying simply:

My dearest Ben
,

You and me, let’s go to Concord, where we can be together. Damn the consequences
.

Your devoted and loving Henry

He folded the paper, addressed it to Ben Wickham, The Maidenhead, Five Points, New York, New York. But after sealing it, he left it on his desk, thinking, One more day. Give it one more day. “Who knows, maybe he’ll show up today.”

Henry thought to go for a walk, but not wanting to go anywhere that would remind him of Ben, make his heart ache, he decided to stay in his room. He opened the
Iliad
and immediately dozed off. He awoke with the book open on his lap, but instead of the exciting language he loved, it was all just Greek to him. He tried to focus, telling himself, Focus, Henry, focus, but it was no use. He lay back and fell asleep and was awoken by Susan’s calling up the stairs, saying there was a letter for him in the afternoon mail. Henry jumped up and ran down the stairs. But instead of a letter from Ben, what he got was a rejection from the
Democratic
Review
.

He welcomed the call to supper, William’s last before leaving for Concord in the morning. William had said little about the scandal, and for Susan, all that now mattered was that William was leaving for two weeks. Freedom was at hand, and she couldn’t contain her glee. Supper was pleasantly diverting, mainly because Henry cared so little about these people and what they had to say. But as they finished the dessert Mary had brought them, peaches and cream, Susan said, “All you need, Henry, is to meet the right girl.”

Henry knew it wasn’t true, but rather than say anything, he slowly shook his head, then he excused himself, went up to his steamy room and thought about Ben. He didn’t feel like reading, he didn’t feel like writing. He lay back and thought about Ben and their time together. He dozed off and awoke in the sweat of a dream. The night was black, and though the muggy heat from the day before still hung thick in the air, for Henry it was a crisp autumn dawn.

In his dream Ben, standing beside him, so beautifully, warmly Ben, his crescent smile beaming, said, “You know the only time you’ve ever been happy, lived life fully, was when we were together.” The clock in the downstairs hall gonged four.

Henry sat up. “I have to find him. Then all I have to do is say, Let’s go to Concord. You and me. Together.” He fumbled into his trousers. “I’m not afraid of Concord. And if you don’t want to go there, let’s go to Block Island.” He squirmed into his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair. “I won’t live my life worrying what others think.” He crouched to pull on his stockings and shoes, and sat erect. “All he wants is me. And all I want is him. I have to find Ben.”

Henry told Susan he was going to Manhattan and asked William if he could accompany him. Assuming she knew why he was going, Susan said, “I think it’s a good idea, Henry.”

“What’s a good idea?”

“You’re going to sell magazine subscriptions, aren’t you?”

Henry snickered, and then the carriage William had ordered arrived, and they were off. As they departed Staten Island on the ferry, an orange sun rose through the still haze, but as they got underway, great gusts blew steadily from the west. The harbor churned, as did their stomachs as the little ferry struggled against the oncoming chop. A mean cloudbank rose in the west.

By the time they were halfway across the huge harbor the mean cloudbank had transformed into a terrifying black mass of cloud that was racing toward them. New Jersey turned to night, though the rising sun still warmed their backs. “Lord help us,” said William. “Let’s go in.”

“No, I want to stay out.”

“You’re a lunatic,” said William, entering the cabin.

As Henry watched the curtain of black rain sweep toward them over the bay, he said, “I want to live. I want to taste life.” Fierce lightning shot through the dark. The shoreline blurred, disappeared. The masts and spars of the anchored ships faded to ghostly outline, then whole ships disappeared. The wall of black rain, approaching fast, flattened the bay with its powerful downpour. Henry held tight to the rail, awed, and the very moment the blackness passed overhead he was enveloped by air so chilled it was as if someone had opened an icehouse door. Day had turned to night. Cold rain consumed the bow and pounded Henry with such ferocity he had to shield his face with his left hand while holding the rail for dear life with his right. There was no escaping now. All around terrifying electrical bolts crackled and ripped the air with thunderous violence. Never had Henry felt so at the mercy of a storm.

The pummeling rain continued, visibility was nil, but the pilot somehow steered the little ferry into its dock. The hatch to the cabin flew open, and with it the stench of vomit. Henry gasped. Vomit-covered passengers clambered up to the deck. William’s pants were slopped with vomit. “Bloody man threw up all over me,” he said, scraping the mess with his knife and letting the downpour do the rest. “My Lord, what rain!”

“I’m off,” said Henry. “Wish everyone the best for me.”

“I’m right behind you,” said William, and hurried off to the Norwich boat.

Despite the rain the progress of Manhattan hadn’t stopped, at least not yet. The crowds moved quickly, tradesmen hammered and sawed with extra vigor—though the bricklayers gave up. Horses reared and were whipped harder, but the pounding rain and rushing water muffled their cries. Streets filled with water and then mud. Though the wood planks of the Broad Way were washed clean.

Waiflike boys took refuge under awnings, offered boot shines and newspapers. And fighting them for that bit of shelter were hurrying business men and lumpy-faced, toothless men selling oysters and catfish and every other imaginable thing, live and dead. Since he was already soaked through with what seemed then a warmer rain, Henry decided not to hurry. He continued up the Broad Way, his sagging hat still providing enough protection so he could enjoy watching everyone now scurrying out of the rain. Here and there a joyous screech pierced the sound of the downpour as a boy or young man leaped off the planks into the mud. Hundreds were huddled in Barnum’s doorway and up the steps in the Astor House. Henry took the split past the east side of city hall, where the road split again. He had no idea which way to go. Under an awning on the east side of the street, boys hawked their soggy newspapers, apparently to themselves, since there was no one else around.

“Here’s the
Deal
, the latest Dickens!”

If the Harpers don’t get it first! thought Henry.

“Pittsfield Preacher changes Day of Destruction: World won’t end until April! A
New Mirror
exclusive.”

“Thank the Lord we’ve been given a reprieve,” said Henry.

“I got
Brudduh Jonatun
. Read today’s
Brudduh
Jon
.” Henry turned, and there, totally soaked, his cap his only protection, was the green-eyed boy with the buck teeth, hawking his papers. Henry, wanting to help the boy out, pulled a copper out of his pocket and said, “I’ll take one.”

“I know you,” said the boy. He took the penny, folded the paper and slapped it into Henry’s hand, saying, “Goo’ fa keepin’ dry.”

Disarmed but pleased that the boy remembered him, Henry said through the pouring rain, “Bit too late for that.” And then he leaned toward the boy’s ear and said so the boy could hear above the cascade, “Do you know a place called the Maidenhead?”

The boy pulled back, lifted a shoulder and batted his eyes, mimicking a pansy. “Ooh, duh Maidened? Look foh Liddle Wodah. Buy all me papuhs I cin tagk yuh.”

“Please,” said Henry, not getting the boy’s offer. “Just point the way.”

Pointing through the downpour to the alleyway just by where they stood, the boy raised his voice, “You kin get theah tru heah.”

“Through that alley?”

The boy smiled and nodded. Henry smiled and nodded back and stepped off into the splashing mud, which came up over his ankles. The alley was only as wide as a horse cart, if that. Someone pushed him from behind, a rough man who also was soaked through. Henry recovered his balance, looked back and saw the buck-toothed boy smile and then wave. He waved back, somehow reassured by the boy’s friendliness. He stood for a moment out of the way, searching for the driest route, and then looked up to see two well-dressed men, conversing loudly, trudging towards him through the mud. Figuring this was the way, he ventured farther into the muck. Just past the solid brick bank that faced city hall, substance gave way to dilapidation: wood structures—you couldn’t really call them buildings—that rose several stories out of the mud. Gushing water poured from the roofs and fell from rickety wood stairs attached to the outside of the structures, while men and women, madly laughing, raced up and down the shivering steps Henry was sure were about to collapse on him. Rough hewn holes in the walls served as doors and windows.

Happily for Henry, the rain kept the stench of excrement to a minimum, though he often wondered what he was slogging through. Where there was the least bit of shelter, men and women in twos and threes and sometimes a dozen huddled together, talking, arguing, laughing about how hard it was raining, spitting tobacco juice out into the flood. From inside one of the structures a goat bleated. Happily screaming children ran by, naked or covered only in mud. Fear brightened Henry’s senses, as if he were deep in an unknown forest. At another intersection Henry came upon the filthy stump of a raggy man offering “delicious clams.” For reassurance he turned back for the light of the substantial street he’d ventured from, but all he could see was a bending alleyway. Before him was the same.

Shouting through the rain, “Clams, sir?”

“No thank you.” Henry turned—and was lifted off his feet by the man’s bugle blaring not two feet from his ear. “Bastard,” said Henry, holding his ringing ear. The vendor smiled, exposing his two teeth. “No clams, sir?”

Henry hurried on, wiping water from his face and eyes as he twisted through larger groups of men and women, laughing and splashing each other and making fun. These were tough, scary people, even the women, for they were certainly no ladies. Henry looked for signs on buildings but saw none. Dogs barked somewhere ahead, coming in his direction. Henry turned a corner, was slammed by the stench of fresh human excrement that had caught on a step, obviously released from above. He caught his breath, gagged, nearly puked, stumbled on.

Finally, civilization. A sign: Real windows, a door. A tavern. Henry entered the small vestibule, removed his hat and went in to the steamy, crowded room. Everyone seemed drunk, and all were talking at once. He thought to ask the nearest man for directions and leave, but he couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. These people knew each other, had obviously sought shelter here from the unrelenting rain. He was pushed against a table of drunks in the corner by the door. Laughing, pounding fists, screaming at one another. Unable to get anyone’s attention, Henry raised his voice and said just as the table quieted: “I’m looking for Little Water Street!” Every head turned.

“Pansy Lane?” said one of the drunken women at the table, and spat tobacco juice on the floor. The whole place erupted in derisive laughter. Henry froze with fear, and then the door opened and in walked John Manning, the rotund little man from
Dahlia
, with a black umbrella. Henry said, “Mister Manning?” The little man looked him in the eye, then turned on his heels and disappeared out the door. Henry ran out of the tavern in time to see him and his raised umbrella scoot around a corner. Henry called his name and took off after him. Now he had method to his madness. John Manning had recommended the Maidenhead to Ben. Surely he would lead him there. But why was he running away from him? Henry could barely see through the dim light and the pouring rain. John Manning weaved through the dogs and pigs and naked children playing in the muck, Henry in pursuit. And how was it that the tubby little man moved so fast through the mud and the rain? Henry slowed as his legs tired of slogging through the thick mud. But no, there were more naked children here, playing happily in the stinking mud with the pigs. A goat’s head emerged from a building, its bleat startling Henry and nearly knocking him off balance. And now I’ve lost him. Henry stopped. Coughed hard. Looked back at the goat. Coughed up phlegm. The goat, inside, while the children were out in the mud and the rain. But there. . . . Is that—? How did he get behind me? Henry called through the rain, his voice going nowhere. Here the only people he crossed mud with were black men and women and children.

But there was John Manning’s umbrella. Henry followed through the warren of dilapidated buildings until he was totally lost—and had lost his quarry. And then the rain stopped, through not the water pouring down off the buildings. Henry looked up to a ribbon of bright blue sky between the brown buildings. He walked toward a field of light, where the muddy lane opened up to a small square and he found himself before the most substantial building he’d seen since leaving the Broad Way, a brick building with proper windows, sandstone steps and the word
Maidenhead
inscribed ornately in gold leaf in the light over the double doors. Water gushed out of its copper downspouts. The sky was blue, the sun shone bright.

“Oh dear.” Catching his breath, Henry took off his hat and shook it out. Will Ben even want to see me? He felt like he’d been through a dream. Had it really been raining so hard? Water rushed in rivers, the square was flooded. He took a deep breath, Hindu style, and let it out, wondering if he should go in or turn back. “I’ve come this far.” He scraped his muddy boots and knocked. And knocked again. Butterflies flew pell-mell through his stomach. The lock clicked, a bolt slid and the left door opened. An old black man with skin that appeared as thin as parchment peered out. “My, my. You must have been caught in the rain. Come in. Come in.”