Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,40
reading everything I could get my hands on. The head librarian was this woman who was impressed that a loser ex-con like me was such a big reader.” He frowns and looks out the window, but I notice that Thomas’s eyes have grown soft. “She became like a mother to me, made me feel like I belonged somewhere, you know? Long story short, I went to college for American History, got a master’s in Library Science, and here I am.”
Before I can bombard him with questions to keep him talking, Thomas clears his throat as if placing a period at the end of his story and leans forward in his chair, eyes penetrating mine. “Anyway,” he says. “Enough about me.”
I stare down at the quilt on the bed until all the colors blend together in a jumbled multicolor blur. “So, I guess it’s my turn now,” I say. And I realize I really do want to tell him. “First, my name isn’t really Hank.”
Lying back against the pillows, I tell Thomas everything I know, from the moment I woke up at the train station with Walden at my side, not knowing my name or where I came from, to the freak-out scene at the library. I tell him about Simon’s knife and the crime I committed in the alley. I tell him about Jack and Nessa and using Simon’s money to get a train ticket. Tell him the whole thing in a detached way, like it’s somebody else’s story, somebody else’s life.
Then I tell him about the few memories I can access. Like what I know about my father and mother. My sister. Big eyes, blond hair, blood. That’s when it stops feeling like somebody else’s story, and it becomes completely and painfully mine.
I have to get out of this bed.
“Hank, take it easy.” Thomas is standing by the side of the bed, hand pressing down on my shoulder. “When you’re stronger, I’ll help you find answers, I promise. I’m a research librarian. Finding answers is what I do, remember?”
I settle back against the feather pillows, letting them engulf me until the dizziness passes. Gazing up at Thomas’s strong presence makes a flicker of hope ignite in the center of my chest. But just as quickly, fear snuffs it out.
“Do you think I’ll go to jail, Thomas?” Staring up at the ceiling, at water stains and fault-line cracks in the plaster, I feel like a little boy asking if the boogeyman is hiding under my bed. Except that it’s way scarier than that. Depending on what I did, somebody like Judge Hoar could send me to jail for the rest of my life.
“I don’t know, Hank.” Thomas sits down, scratches his shaggy black hair thoughtfully with both hands until it sticks up in spikes. “Your circumstances are unique, so it’s hard to say. But look, what you need right now is a safe place to stay for a few days, and you’ve got that. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
We. The ceiling cracks and stains blur into amoeba shapes before my watering eyes. “Why would you do this for me?” I whisper.
“Like I told you. When I was younger, some good people helped me out, and that made all the difference,” he says. “This is my chance to pay that back. Maybe you’ll do the same someday for somebody else.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” I swallow hard, brush tears from my eyes before they can drip down my stupid face. “So what do we do first?”
“First, get out of this bed and take a shower, dude.” Thomas punches me in the arm. “You reek.”
After my shower, I find Thomas out in his driveway, changing the oil in his Harley. I sit on the back steps, watching Thomas work. Do I know about engines? Have I ever worked on cars or bikes? Nothing comes, but it doesn’t matter. It just feels good to be outside, warm sun on my face, my arms. It’s a relief to have let somebody in at last, somebody who might be able to help me.
“You know, I’ve got it figured out,” Thomas says after a while, sliding a metal pan under the oil tank. He rests on his haunches and looks at me. “I know who you are.”
Startled, I turn to stare at him. “You do?”
He stands up and grabs a wrench from a neatly organized tool chest on the driveway. “Yep. I suspected it from the first moment I saw you at the cabin site, looking like