Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,23

sleeve of my sweater. “You…translate his writing into other languages?”

He stares at me, then a chuckle erupts from somewhere deep in his wide chest. “No, not that kind of interpreter. I’m a historic interpreter. I pose as Thoreau, wear the kind of clothes he would have worn, make appearances and give talks. That kind of thing. People ask questions and I answer as Thoreau. It’s fun.”

I narrow my eyes at his tall, muscular body, trying to imagine him in an outfit like Thoreau’s. He doesn’t look anything like the short, thin version of Thoreau I saw—dreamed, hallucinated, whatever—but he seems like a nice guy so I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

He takes a deep breath of morning air, and looks out at the misty lake reflecting the sun. “A morning walk is a blessing for the whole day,” he says. I recognize the quote. Thoreau, of course.

“Only that day dawns to which we are awake,” I quote back automatically, stifling a yawn.

The man laughs. “Clever,” he says. “Very clever. By the way, my name’s Thomas.” He extends a hand. I try to muster a decent grip inside his paw of a hand.

“I’m Hank.”

As soon as he takes my hand, Thomas yanks his back in surprise. “Christ, Hank. Your hands are like ice.” For the first time, he notices that I’m shivering my ass off.

He stares at me, trying to figure me out.

“You need a ride home, Hank?” he asks.

Home. “Uh, no thanks.” I stuff my hands into my pockets and stare at the ground. When I glance up again at Thomas’s face, I see kindness.

“Well at least let me help you get warmed up. I have hot coffee in a thermos and a couple bagels back at my vehicle. I’d be happy to share them with you.”

I squint into the morning sun behind his head and say, “Sure,” trying to sound casual. But I’m suddenly feeling so grateful that I have to swallow the lump in my throat.

After crossing the street with Thomas, I spot Thoreau’s cabin. The cabin isn’t on the hill by Walden Pond where it belongs, but all the way over here, practically in the parking lot.

“Why is the cabin here? It doesn’t belong here,” I say, pissed. If I’d only known last night that it was here all along, so close.

Thomas stands with his keys in one hand. “It’s a replica,” he tells me. “The actual cabin was moved and collapsed years ago. So they built this one from old photos and descriptions in Henry’s book.”

A replica. I walk closer, peer in the window.

“Do you want to go in?” Thomas smiles at me. “I have the key. It’s time to open for the tourists anyway. ”

“Yeah, I would.”

“First let me grab breakfast.” He jabs a thumb toward a motorcycle parked about twenty feet in front of us, black and chrome, reflecting the morning sun. A historian with a Harley. If that historian was anybody else, it might seem strange. But somehow, it fits Thomas. I watch as he saunters over to the bike in his black boots, opens a compartment in the back, and takes out a backpack.

Inside the cabin, it’s just the way I imagined it when I read the book, almost exactly the way it looked in my dream. A bed. A desk and table, painted green.

“Three chairs,” I say, unconsciously quoting Henry again. “One for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”

Thomas lifts his eyebrows. “That’s exactly right.” He sets his walking stick in a corner and sits in the chair closest to the fireplace. He takes a thermos out of the backpack and pours steaming coffee into a plastic mug, which he offers to me. I cup my hands around its warmth.

“So, they lock this place up at night?” I ask casually and sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress crackles under me, like it’s filled with straw. The coffee is black and tastes bitter but warms me from the inside out, so I don’t mind.

“Of course. Concord’s a nice town, but they can’t leave it open.” Thomas takes off his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair. “Some vagrant might show up and try to sleep here.”

I nod sympathetically. “Yeah.” Some vagrant. Like me. I examine the windows, wondering how hard it might be to jimmy one open.

Thomas hands me a buttered bagel in a plastic bag.

I rip the bag open and eat too fast, realizing I haven’t had food since yesterday afternoon on