Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,34

own. Today I’m here to do some research for a paper I’m working on.”

“Well then, today’s your lucky day,” Thomas says, flashing straight white teeth. “In addition to being a historian, I’m the research librarian here.” He pulls up the right sleeve of his green T-shirt to show me the tattoo of a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Except that it’s wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses just like Thomas’s, and above the snake is one word in fancy Gothic lettering: “Bookworm.”

“I can hook you up with any research materials you might need.” He settles his black glasses on the end of his nose and sits down at his desk, fingers poised over his computer keyboard. He smiles up at me expectantly. “So.”

“So?”

“What’s the subject you’re researching today?”

My mind chokes, just when I need it to be creative.

“Well, I’m working on a paper about…” My glance drifts around the room, searching for something, anything that might inspire a potential research paper project. Nothing comes to me. Can’t think straight. Must be this stupid headache, the heat gathering under my skin, so distracting.

But then, I see them. Perched high on the ends of several bookshelves in the lobby, there’s a row of four statues. They’re carved in white marble like the Emerson one, except these are just the heads and shoulders of people, like the tops of their bodies were hacked off and set on pedestals.

“…famous people who lived in Concord. Since I’m new to the town and all, I thought it would be an interesting and educational subject for me to pursue.”

Lame, lame, lame. There’s no way Thomas is going to buy that. But I don’t seem capable of coming up with anything better. Thomas looks skeptical as he peers at me over his glasses, which I totally deserve, but then his glance follows mine, up to the statues.

“You mean, like those dudes up there?”

I offer a non-committal nod-shrug combo.

“Actually, that’s a really good place to start.” Thomas is such a huge history geek that he warms up to the subject immediately and starts telling me who each of the people are, but I’m having trouble concentrating. The guy who looks like he’s sitting on a throne is Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was a big-shot writer in his day. One of the statue heads is Ephraim somebody, and he created the Concord grape. That’s his claim to fame. Another head is Louisa May Alcott who mostly wrote books for girls. Then there’s Ebenezer who was a judge and whose last name is Hoar. I bet he got teased a lot in high school for that. When Thomas starts rambling on about the statue of Bronson Alcott, who was Louisa May’s dad and started some fancy progressive school or something, my eyes start to glaze over. I hope Thomas doesn’t notice. “And, of course, over here, is our friend Henry Thoreau.”

Thomas points to another pedestal off to his right, away from the other statues. On it is another one of those head-and-shoulder deals, but this time it’s Thoreau. I take a closer look, stare into those empty white statue eyes. I don’t remember him having such a huge nose.

“They all knew each other in Concord in the mid-nineteenth century and moved around in the same circles. I’ll look for one book of biographies that deals with all of them if you want,” Thomas says.

“Yeah, sure. That would be great.”

He leans over his computer screen, starts tapping away at the keyboard, and then jogs over to a nearby shelf to grab a book. Sitting back down at his desk, he leafs through it and attaches a yellow sticky note to each page that corresponds to one of the statue people. Then he hands the book to me like it’s the fricking Holy Grail.

“Thanks, man,” I say.

Thomas nods at me, all pleased with himself, but then takes a good long look at me and yanks off his glasses. “You feeling okay, Hank?” he asks me. “Your eyes look a little glassy.”

“Nah, I’m okay,” I tell him. “Just not getting enough sleep, I guess.”

“You’re not still sleeping at Walden, are you?” he asks in a low voice.

I force a laugh. “Of course not. That was just one of those things. Just that one crazy night.”

Thomas nods thoughtfully. “The night you fell out of the sky.”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, shuffle a bit, and pick up the book. “Thanks for this,” I tell him. “I’ll go read it right now.”

I duck into the next