Being Henry David

13

Thomas is sitting on the front landing of the library, waiting for me. I’m sure I look like crap, with dirt on my clothes, a sweat-stained shirt, and red eyes, but Thomas doesn’t say a word about my appearance. Slowly, I climb the stairs to the concrete landing and collapse next to him, every muscle in my body on fire. We sit in silence, just watching the residents of Concord walk or jog by, generally enjoying the day. I envy them. So much.

“So, I suppose this is where you tell me you’re not actually Thoreau reincarnated.” Thomas says at last.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say.

“It’s okay. It was a crazy idea anyway. Would’ve been cool though.”

“Yeah. Cool.”

Thomas offers his water bottle to me, and I take a deep swig. The water is cold and feels good going down my dry throat.

“My name is Daniel,” I tell him. “I live in Naperville, Illinois.”

“Illinois? Wow, you’re a long way from home.” Thomas nods, salutes me with his water. “Pleased to meet you, Daniel.”

I shake my head, and a dead maple leaf falls into my lap. “Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m a really horrible person as it turns out.”

Thomas considers this. “Try me.”

I run my fingers through my hair, pull out pine needles, a dead moth. Then I turn to Thomas. My face is heavy and I feel about a hundred years old.

“My name is Daniel,” I repeat. “I live in Illinois. And I think I killed my little sister.”

Thomas pulls hard on his water bottle to mask his shock and swallows. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what you found out.”

But I can’t speak. My head slumps forward and I’m afraid I’m going to start blubbering, right in front of Thomas.

“Hank,” Thomas says. “Come on, let’s find someplace more private to talk.” He takes me to the side of the library, to a park bench partly hidden from the street by shrubs. We sit on the bench, and I lean over, stare at the ground, watch an ant carry off a breadcrumb. I wish I were an ant…or a breadcrumb.

“Hank, look at me,” Thomas says.

So I do.

“Tell me about Daniel, but do me a favor, and tell me as Hank. Daniel is some kid I don’t know, who had something bad happen to him, far away from here. I’d like to hear my friend Hank tell the story. Okay?”

I nod, wipe my stupid drippy nose with the palm of my hand.

“So there was this kid, Danny Henderson,” I begin. My voice comes out all wobbly, so I clear my throat, take a deep breath, then continue. “He was one of those kids who just did what he was supposed to do, you know? He did his homework, ran track, pretty much did what his parents said and tried not to make trouble for anybody. I mean, sure, he partied with his friends and all, but I don’t know, he just never got too crazy. Just a typical kid, trying to get by.”

I tell him how Daniel went to the House of Blues in Chicago that night with Matt and Joey. How they crashed into a stupid snowbank and damaged the undercarriage of the car without even knowing it. How he and Rosie plowed into that intersection and couldn’t stop. A big gray truck was coming, too fast.

Blood. Pink shoe.

A wave of dizziness breaks over me and without any warning, I barf right into the bushes next to the park bench. This is as far as the beast will let me go. Everything that happened up to the accident is clear, but I can’t remember the actual accident or the days after, except for a few sickening flashes. My memory goes straight from a gray truck bearing down on Mom’s Toyota, to me sitting on the floor at Penn Station in New York City with Frankie staring into my face, saying, “You gonna eat that?”

Wiping my mouth miserably with the back of my hand, I choke out, “I don’t even know if Rosie is alive or dead.”

I’m afraid to see Thomas’s response, expecting to see anger maybe or disgust. And I would deserve it. But instead, I see something that looks a whole lot like sadness. And even more amazing, sympathy.

“Hank,” he says in a gentle voice. “You need to call your parents. No matter what happened that day, you have to call them and let them know you’re okay.”

“But I’m not okay!” I shout at Thomas.

“Of course you’re not,” he says quietly.

“God, Thomas. Why would they want anything to do with me ever again?”

Call your mother, Sophie said. I guarantee she would sacrifice her own life just to have you home.

How can I believe Thomas or Sophie? If I had one kid who killed or hurt another, I could never forgive that. There is not enough love and forgiveness in this world to make up for such a thing. Especially not after all my family has been through in the past five years. But I definitely can’t talk about that.

“They’re your parents. They love you.”

“They love Rosie too,” I argue back.

“Hank, they need to know where you are,” Thomas says softly. “Facing up to this is better than running away.”

No. Can’t face it, not yet. What if I call and they tell me Rosie is dead? I almost puke into the bushes again, empty stomach seizing, and I just want to die. The beast still lives inside me, razor teeth and claws, resolute in protecting me from these final truths. I’m not ready yet. Threatening to swallow me into permanent forgetfulness, the beast insists that I run from this last horrible thing. For now.

I hide my face in my hands for a long time, smelling dead leaves and black dirt on my skin. Finally, I manage to say what Thomas wants to hear. “I’ll call them,” I say. “But after the weekend.”

“No, Hank. My God. This must be torture for them. They need to know you’re safe. And you need to know… about Rosie.”

I fight the urge to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears like some little kid in a nightmare. I just want to scream at Thomas to leave me alone, to understand that the bad stuff belongs to Danny, and I need to be Hank for just a little longer. “Thomas, three more days is not going to change anything,” I say as evenly as possible through my clenched jaw. “I need to play for Hailey at the competition on Saturday. I can’t let her down.” Not one more person. Not Hailey.

Slowly, reluctantly, Thomas nods. “Okay, Hank. Three days,” he says, holding up three fingers just in case I need the clarification. “And listen to me. You’re not a bad kid. What happened back in Illinois, that was an accident.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I can see through the bullshit and platitudes. I’ve screwed up, and there’s no way I can make it better. “Can you give me a ride back to your place, Thomas?” I ask. “I just need to lie down for a while.”

In the parking lot, I climb on the back of Thomas’s motorcycle, and as we ride to his house, I watch the horizon turn purple in the western sky. The end of another day in Concord, Massachusetts. And I know my days here are numbered.

That night, Thoreau visits me in the blue bedroom at Thomas’s house. He’s wearing his dark gray jacket and sitting in the same chair where Thomas was when I woke up that first morning here. Keeping vigil.

“So, now you know,” he says.

“Yeah,” I whisper into the half-dark. “Guess you knew all along.”

He nods and tugs thoughtfully on his beard, which is longer than the last time I saw him and streaked with gray. Henry is older every time I see him. It’s like he’s slipping away from me, getting ready to leave me for good.

The thought of Henry leaving me now, just as I’m forced into the disaster that is my real life, makes me furious. God. I don’t want pseudo-ghosts or dream visitations or whatever you’d call this. All I want is oblivion. Numbness. I’m not Thoreau reincarnated. Not even close. I’m just some screwed-up kid from Illinois who did something terrible and ran away. And he’s just another crazy dream.

“Go away, Henry.” I whisper.

He turns to look out the window into the sky, like he’s trying to decide which star to inhabit in his next life. “You know where to find me,” he says at last.

I turn my face toward the pillow, closing my eyes to the figure in the bedroom, denying him. When I open my eyes again, he’s gone.