Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,18
a stop, and I line up behind the other people getting ready to step off the train and onto the platform. The late-afternoon sun slants orange through a big maple tree when I step off the train, nearly blinding me, so my first view of Concord is splotched with stars. I blink hard to get rid of them, then take a few steps off the train platform and just stand there in a small parking lot, making the other people walk around me, some peering back at me in curiosity. I watch everybody. Do they know me? Will they call me by the name I can’t remember? Is this home? Nobody shows any recognition. I’m both relieved and disappointed.
Across from the depot is a restaurant with clumps of yellow flowers planted out front and next to that is a bicycle shop and a dry cleaner’s. There are trees and shrubs on both sides of the narrow street, and everything looks scrubbed and clean, like maybe somebody comes out and washes the sidewalks every morning. A cool breeze blows my hair into my eyes.
Even as I absorb Concord, Massachusetts, even as I scan the street, searching people’s faces, one thing is clear to me: I have no memory of this place. It’s just a nice little town where people probably feel safe all the time and have nice families to go home to. A town where you don’t have to worry about junkies in alleys pulling knives on you. I wonder if Concord even has alleys.
The train bell clangs behind me, and the train pulls away from the platform. All the other people are gone. I bite my lip so hard it hurts.
There’s nothing else to do, so I step onto the sidewalk, look both ways and randomly head to the right. There’s a gas station at the corner, a doughnut shop across the street. When I reach the curb, I squint up at the street sign. Sudbury Road is the crossroad heading off to the right. I twist my head to get a good look at the name of the other road, the one I’m currently standing on.
Thoreau Street. The name of the place on which I stand is Thoreau Street. I stare down in amazement at Thoreau’s book in my hands, as if it somehow magically made this phenomenon happen and can tell me what I’m supposed to do next.
When I glance up again, there’s a girl standing next to me, waiting for the light to change so she can cross the street. She’s pretty in a girl-jock kind of way, with reddish blond hair in a ponytail, navy blue shorts, and a yellow T-shirt that says Concord Lacrosse. I search her face, hoping to see something familiar there. Do I know you? Do you know me? It’s not until she turns to gaze directly back at me that I realize how rudely I’ve been staring.
“Uh, hi,” I say, trying—too late—to be polite. Then, I cut my eyes away and stare down at the sidewalk. But still, I feel her eyes on me, checking me out pretty much the same way I’d been doing to her. I wait for the light to change so I can escape.
“Hi back,” she says after a moment. “You look…”
I tense up, expecting her to say something like, “you look like that criminal I saw on TV last night,” or “you look like somebody who lives in this town and vanished mysteriously a few weeks ago.”
“…lost,” she says. Her face is open, so different from the cautious eyes and shifty glances of people in the city. I guess when people are safe, they can afford to be friendly.
“I am lost.” My mouth is dry and my voice comes out like a croak. “Could you tell me how to get—”
“To Walden Pond?”
I stare at her. “How did you know?”
She points at the book in my hand. “The book. Another friend of Thoreau. We’re used to it around here.”
“Oh,” I mumble, oddly embarrassed to be just another random follower of Henry in this girl’s eyes.
“Well, I can show you how to get there. It’s not far, less than a mile. I came into town for Starbucks, but now I’m headed back to the high school for the late bus. If you walk with me, that’ll get you most of the way there.”
She looks sideways at me, and her ponytail swings behind her. Girls. Do I know anything about them? How to act with them, what they