Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,84
me. Maybe I can be forgiven after all. I can hardly stand up with the relief of this. His arms hold me on my feet when I want to fall and kiss the magic ground.
Dad looks me over with his hands on my shoulders like he’s convincing himself it really is me there in front of him, and all in one piece. “Danny,” he says again, choking on my name. And then he crushes me to himself all over again like it will help him believe.
When I pull back and peer into his eyes, I can’t say her name, can’t ask. But of course, he knows.
“Rosie’s going to be okay,” he says. “She’s a strong little girl. But she needs her big brother.”
Inside me somewhere, the beast shrinks and contracts into itself until it is nothing but pure white light.
“All she wants—all any of us want—is for you to come home.”
Home.
I drink the word like someone who has been lost in the desert without water for more days than I can count and gulp it down.
Dad takes a tissue out of his back pocket and blows his nose into it with his signature honk. He stuffs it into his pocket and turns to Thomas, who is standing at a polite distance trying not to look like he’s eavesdropping as he rubs at his own watering eyes.
“But first, Thomas, there’s no way we’re going to get this close and not stand at the summit of Mount Katahdin.”
Thomas grins at us both. “Well, hell yeah. I’ve always wanted to set foot on the official ending of the Appalachian Trail.”
“The ending.” Dad echoes and looks at me. We lock eyes, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. What looks like the ending could just as easily be considered the beginning.
That’s when the last words Henry wrote in Walden pop into my head. And I realize the ending of Walden isn’t really an ending either.
Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
Dad smiles, pats me on the back, and together with Thomas we turn toward Baxter Peak and the huge bluegray sky above us and walk.
Acknowledgments
So many people to thank, so many things to say, so much love to spread around. Borrowing a line from my favorite book-turned-movie, The Princess Bride: “There is too much—let me sum up.”
Thank you…
…first and foremost, to Lesléa Newman, friend, teacher, mentor, author, and literary cheerleader extraordinaire.
…to editor Wendy McClure, for “having a feeling” about my book, and agent Rubin Pfeffer who said, “this should be your debut novel—when can I see the rest?”
…to Cal’s Marketing Team (CMT), Tedford and (future published author) Nicolle, for supporting me and helping do the things I suck at doing, which is a lot. And to mini-me Cori for loving and supporting all of us.
…to the best writing group buddies ever: Pauline Briere, Pam McKinney, Amy Safford, Kara Storti, Chris Daly, Karen Jersild, and Meriah Crawford.
…to the fabulous instructors/mentors from the Stonecoast MFA program at the University of Southern Maine, especially: Brad Barkley, Suzanne Strempek- Shea, and Elizabeth Searle.
…to Richard Smith, the real-life tattooed Thoreau interpreter/historian/punk rocker/rebel who was my Henry fact-checker and helped solidify the character of Thomas.
…to the amazing people who have shared (and continue to share) the magic of music in my life…you know who you are…
…and to Edmund and Ruth Anne Claypool who provided me with a lifetime supply of love and encouragement (not to mention art and writing supplies). Thanks, Mom and Dad.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
978-1-4804-1986-5
Text copyright © 2013 by Cal Armistead
The design is by Nick Tiemersma
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Table of Contents
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Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
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Acknowledgments