Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,64
thundering into the woods. At first I think he’s shouting at me, which makes no sense. Then I hear someone crash past me in the underbrush, not ten feet away. Popping my head out of the sleeping bag, I see some kid in a plaid coat, red scarf, and black knit cap pulled down low over his head running up the hill, a bundle in his arms. I scramble out of the sleeping bag and stand up to get a better look.
There, in the clearing by Thoreau’s cabin site, is a guy with bushy red hair, dripping with pond water, wearing nothing but a pair of drenched boxers and shivering with cold and fury. The guy breaks into a clumsy, barefooted run into the woods after the thief who apparently stole his clothes. After running just a few yards, he bellows in pain, grabs his foot, and unleashes an amazing tirade of creative cursing about what he intends to do to the thief, his entire extended family, and any domestic animals they happen to own. I’m so impressed that I just stand there, staring.
Spotting me there beside the boulder, the guy actually shakes his fist at me and says, “What are you just standing there for? Stop that bastard now, for the love of God!” He gestures toward the crashing figure, swiftly disappearing into the woods.
The insult and indignity of the guy’s situation strikes me. Besides, what else am I going to do, say, Nah, you’re on your own. You just stand there and freeze your ass off. I don’t care? Of course not. So I step out of the sleeping bag, slip on my sneakers without lacing them, and bound into the woods after the kid who was cruel enough to steal a half-naked guy’s clothes when he was looking the other way.
The thief has grown momentarily silent, maybe realizing that twigs breaking and dead leaves crunching under his feet give away his location. He must be hiding now, crouched behind a bush or a large rock.
But then I spot his red knit scarf, caught in a branch near his hiding place by a toppled pine tree, and all hell breaks loose as he gives in to the chase. He ducks behind a stand of maple trees, but I spot him at the top of the hill, trying to find a shortcut out to the street.
“Hey you, stop!” I shout, which is stupid of course, because this only makes him run faster. He stumbles on a branch, almost falls, and I finally gain on him. Reaching the back of his coat, I grab on, tackle him to the ground, and we somersault together in the leaves. I roll him over, pin him down on the dirt with my knees on his shoulders, and get a good look at him.
Huge blue eyes stare up at me, the bottom half of his face covered by the flipped-up collar of the plaid coat. A strand of long blond hair sneaks out from under the wool hat. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. This is no guy. It’s a girl.
“Sorry,” I stammer, all embarrassed, until I remind myself she’s a thief, even if she is female, with long blond hair and pretty eyes. “I mean, come on, who steals a guy’s clothes?”
The girl blinks at me, dark lashes, eyes that look familiar somehow.
“Hank?” she says.
“Nessa?” My voice comes out something like a squeak. Stunned, I scramble to my feet away from her, and with her hands freed, she yanks the hat off her head, pulls the collar away from her face, and I see her huge smile.
“Hank!” she cries out, and she’s throwing her arms around my neck, practically jumping all over me. “I found you!”
Nessa is here, hanging off my neck, here in Concord, Massachusetts, and I’m too startled to convert any of the questions in my head into coherent sentences. I register that she’s a blond now—after the makeover Magpie ordered—and that although she’s still pretty, her hands, face, and clothes are filthy.
“Yes, you found me,” I say at last. “I…here you are, and I have so many questions about that.” I shake my head to clear it, like shaking off a crazy dream that makes no sense. “But you know, there’s a guy standing down there shivering in his underwear, and he needs his clothes back.”
She grins, but lowers her eyes like she’s at least making an attempt to be ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“Look, just give me his clothes,”