Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,22
imagine it?
“I’m, uh, you know.” My mouth is so dry I can hardly talk. “Trying to simplify, like you wrote about. Live in nature.” Jesus. I sound like an idiot. But it’s a little nerve wracking to talk to a ghost. Or the dream of a ghost. Or whatever this is.
Thoreau squints down at me doubtfully. “You read my book?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “Every word.” Well, every word except the ones on the pages Frankie ate, but I don’t want to get into that.
He smiles at me, and nods his head toward the sign by the rock pile. Thoreau’s smile turns into a dry, raspy chuckle. The sound gets louder, then suddenly he’s bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, laughing his ass off. At me.
What’s so damn funny? I look over at the sign, at the quote printed there in the dim morning light, even though I remember perfectly what it says:
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
No wonder Thoreau is laughing at me. There’s such a thing as simplifying too much. Leave out the “essential facts of life” like food, warm clothes, and shelter, and obviously you won’t be able to keep your stupid self alive.
I turn back to where Thoreau stood to say, point taken. But I don’t have to cut back on too much stuff or food or money or a big house. I’m here, starting from absolutely nowhere with absolutely nothing. What better student could there be than me?
But Thoreau is gone and I’m alone, staring through the trees as a pale yellow haze begins to light the sky at the edge of Walden Pond. The wind rattles some dry leaves in the oak tree above my head, and it sounds a whole lot like laughing.
6
Past the chill, beyond the smell of decaying leaves and pine and the fresh mist of morning on Walden Pond, a man’s deep voice reaches into my sleep. I’m outside under the sky and I hear his voice. It’s not the ghost of Thoreau this time. The voice is more familiar.
Wake up, the voice says. It’s time to gather wood for the fire and make breakfast. We’ve got a long hike ahead of us today.
I smile. So happy to be here with him. He calls me by the name I can’t remember, and I can almost hear it, the shape and lilt of my forgotten name.
“Dad?”
A man clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh. Excuse me. I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”
My head jerks toward the man’s voice, and I pull a stiff muscle in my neck with a twang. Some big guy with a black goatee stands looking down at me, clutching a crooked walking stick.
“The park isn’t open yet,” he tells me.
“What? Oh, sorry.” My voice is thick with sleep, and my mouth feels full of marshmallows. Just the sight of his leather jacket and black wool hat makes me shiver, jealous of the warmth. I sit up, fighting grogginess, and rub the stiff place in my neck.
As he stares at me, I imagine my wild hair with leaves poking out of it, my wrinkled clothes and sleep-creased face. Surely he can see I’m merely pathetic and not a threat.
Leaning on his stick with one hand hitched up on his hip, he asks, “Did you sleep here all night?”
I scratch my head and pull an oak leaf out of my hair. “I wouldn’t call it sleeping, exactly.”
He smiles, which makes friendly creases around his eyes. “Well, just so you know, Walden Pond doesn’t officially open until seven a.m.” He pulls back a coat sleeve to consult his watch. “And it’s about six forty-five at the moment.”
My forehead crunches into a frown. What? Can they actually close the pond? Close the woods? I wonder if he’s going to arrest me. With his bulky build and shrewd, guarded expression, he could be a cop. Or maybe an ex-con. I want to ask what he’s doing here if the pond is closed, but I don’t want to sound like a smartass.
“I work for the park commission, and I come here for my morning walks,” he explains, as if reading my thoughts. “I’m a Thoreau interpreter,” he adds, like he’s expecting me to be impressed.
I stand up and brush pine needles off the