by Jane Langton
"Good God, girl, what's the matter with you? I'll know better than to take you into a cemetery at midnight any more." He stopped, then, and listened. "Hey, you're right. There is somebody over there."
The crunching sound grew more audible. Grate, grate, grate. Then it stopped. There was a swollen piece of fog hanging over Thoreau's grave. (Like a winding sheet—or a cocoon about to loose some great shadowy moth—and the moth would flutter its huge grey wings and then blunder against Mary's cheek and grapple in her long hair.) She shuddered violently, and struggled to master herself. But then out of the fog there came a voice, and Mary was suddenly calm and still, listening. The voice had a low sepulchral hollowness, as though it came from some body that had gently laid aside its coffin lid like the newly risen dead. "Know all men by these presents, that I, Henry Thoreau..." It broke off. Homer gripped Mary's arm. But her fear had turned to a weird longing. She felt an intense desire to walk forward, rend the mist and find Thoreau inside it, reborn, alive, clothed in flesh, his eyes upon her—those great, burning eyes! The voice began again, more loudly this time, more firmly.
"Those who call themselves Abolitionists should not wait till they constitute a majority of one. It is enough if they have God on their side. Any man more right than his neighbors constitutes a majority of one already."
The voice stopped again. Homer recognized the statement: it was a fragment of Homer's essay Civil Disobedience. He remembered some of it himself, and he spoke up cheerfully. "Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison." He lifted up his flashlight and switched it on, pointing it at the chrysalis of fog. The fog expelled its contents, and a man stepped forth. It was Howard Swan.
"Is that you, eh, Teddy?" said Howard.
"No," said Homer. He turned the flashlight up under his face and then turned it momentarily on Mary. "It's Kelly and Mary Morgan. Well, well, Howard. Happy anniversary."
Howard Swan scraped the gravel with his foot. "I had to come," he said. "I was sitting at home there, reading Henry's journal, and I got to thinking about him, you know, lying up here alone for a hundred years, and I just had to come over." He gestured sheepishly with his hand, which had a bunch flowers in it. "I brought him some wild flowers."
Homer spoke softly. "Did you expect to find Teddy Staples here?" He directed his flashlight at Howard's face. Howard looked distressed.
"No, of course not. He's still missing, isn't he? I just though when you spoke up, it might be Teddy. I mean, who else cared enough about Henry's memory to come up here like this, and could quote him, and so on? As a matter of fact, for a minute there, I almost thought you were..." His voice drifted off, and he turned and bent over and laid his flowers in front of the Thoreau family marker.
"Thanks for the compliment," said Homer. "We thought same about you." He turned off his flashlight, and the three of them stood in the swirling mist looking at the blocky shadow that marked the resting place of Henry Thoreau, his father and mother, his beloved brother John and his two sisters. (The sisters had probably worn their hair long, like the others. They had parted it in the middle, and combed it flat and smooth each morning, and twisted it and braided it and lifted it up and interwoven it and pinned it together at the back of the head with long, long hairpins. Strong sharp hairpins firm enough to hold their heavy masses of hair...)
"Well, so long," said Howard Swan. "I'll go on home, I guess." His footsteps went off, crunching along the path.
Mary and Homer followed slowly. Homer whistled quietly, the only tune he could think of to honor the man a hundred years dead. It was John Brown's Body. Henry had been a passionate defender of Brown.
Then Mary had another rush of insight, and she felt tears springing up in her eyes. How could she have been so blind! "Homer, I know now what Teddy meant, when he said he had only one month more—he was born on the same day as Thoreau, remember? July 12, 1817. Only in 1917, of course, exactly one hundred years later. I told you about that, didn't I? And Thoreau died exactly one hundred years ago today. Teddy must have thought that he, too, was going to die on the same day! Don't you see?"
"My God, I think you're right. And Teddy had the same symptoms, too—the pulmonary consumption, the coughing, the legs going out from under him. And all completely induced by hysterical identification. You're a genius," Homer clapped her on the back.
"Homer, Teddy's gone off somewhere to die, like a poor sick dog. Can you die of hysterical identification? I'll bet you can."
"The question is, did he do in Goss first? If Teddy thought he was going to die anyway, what was there to stop him? And then where the heck did he go?"
But if he was dead anyway, what did it matter? Mary found herself remembering the words in Teddy's journal: Her light will be as raddiant as ever, when I am no more. She said nothing, and stared up at the mist. It had risen and it hung now in the treetops, like layers of spun glass shredded out into stringy banners, or long hair tangled in the treetops. Long, tangled, witch-white hair...
Homer could feel her shaking. "What's the matter with you? Here, dearie, let's talk about something else. We'll be out of these meeting places for spirits pretty soon. Just hang on." He put his arm around Mary's waist (it was easy) and began to talk amiably about Paul Revere, squeezing her tightly against his side. "I was reading those three accounts of his today, that he wrote about his famous ride. That Prescott fellow of yours must have been a bold fellow. The British said, 'G-blank-D D-blank-N you, stop, or you're a dead man!' Or so goes Paul's story. Imagine his politeness, writing in those blanks. And then they herded Revere and Dawes and Prescott into a field, and then Prescott jumped his horse over a stone wall and got away to Concord. So he was a jumper, too..."
"But, you see, that doesn't matter," said Mary. She shook her head and pulled away from Homer, rubbing her arm over her forehead. "I keep getting the past and the present all mixed up. As though Henry Thoreau really took Teddy away with him, or as if the murderer was really Dr. Sam Prescott, and as if he shot Mr. Goss with a ghostly old flintlock and then vanished into thin air. And of course it's ridiculous to think that way."
Homer chuckled. (Cheer the girl up.) "I bet you don't know what Paul Revere said at the end of his famous ride?"
"No, I don't."
"'Whoa.'"
And then suddenly there was a horseman, and the sound of a horse's hooves cantering along the gravel path behind them.
"G-blank-D," said Homer, "if it ain't old Dr. Sam himself come back as a ha'nt!"
Mary, too frightened to speak, stood rigid in the middle of the path, her head wrenched back over her shoulder, listening. The cantering sound changed to a gallop, and Homer at last had to snatch her roughly out of the way, as a great shape plunged heavily by, going like the wind down the hill. The horseman was leaning forward, his jacket flying behind him. They could see his hair in silhouette, caught by a ribbon in back, bobbing up and down. He called something to his horse, and leaned over farther. "Hey," shouted Homer, "whoa up there!"
They could see the rider pull at the reins with a sort of convulsion, and half turn his horse to glance back at them. Then he wheeled his mount around and, kicking with his heels, started downhill again at top speed.
Mary could feel hysterical laughter welling up inside her. She found a grave that was a lichen-covered marble bench and sat down on it, covering her mouth with her hands. It had been Prescott, the real Dr. Samuel Prescott.
"Now, don't get excited, you idiot," said Homer. "You know who that was? I heard the voice. There was no mistaking that flat monotone. That was Edith Goss."
*38*
Lidian says that when she gives any new direction in the kitchen she feels like a boy who throws a stone and runs. —Ralph Waldo Emerson
The melting.snow and the rains of March and April had swollen the river that flowed at the foot of the sprouting fields. But the weather of May and June, normally an occasion for irritation, abuse, misery, tears, pain, distress and withered hopes, had turn
ed out so long and golden a succession of days that one almost forgot to take note any more or thank God or rejoice. It was like a king's grant, signed and sealed, or a special dispensation of Providence. The greenish-white blossoming of Tom's trees was over now. It had been a spring when one walked carefully, afraid to tear or crush something incredible. But the most fragile time was past, and now there was strong ugly plantain in the grass.
Mary woke up on a Tuesday morning that was like the rest, clear and bright. Outside her bedroom window the fully-globed maple trees stood glittering like jeweler's work. In the elm tree a hoarse-throated bird had sprung a leak in his kettle and was dripping rusty splashes of song on the lawn. Mary got out of bed and pulled on her clothes, reflecting. It was the combination of things, perhaps, that had made it inevitable. Given a crop of young men with classical educations and given a succession of nurturing springtimes, how could New England not have produced a rash of transcendentalists? Or even so rare a flower as a Thoreau? Perhaps you shouldn't wonder at genius. Sometimes, maybe, it grew as naturally as weeds.
Gwen put her head in the door. "Mary, I don't suppose you have any white elephants for the church bazaar?"
"Oh, I don't know. Let me think."
"Anything will do, you know, absolutely anything. Old worn-out pieces of electrical equipment, toasters and irons. Remember the hair-dryer that John bought once? The heating unit didn't work, but he used it for a fan and gave himself chilblains all summer."
"I'll look around. Isn't that Mrs. Bewley vacuuming? Why don't you ask her? You know, she's got a whole houseful of white elephants."
"Oh, you bet I'm going to. She's our old reliable."
Gwen had graduated to little maternity jackets. She was keeping her weight down with difficulty, and already found the stairs hard going. Mrs. Bewley, who loved babies and motherhood, had offered to come in on her day off and help out. Now she stood in John's room, pushing the vacuum cleaner back and forth. Gwen came up behind her and turned off the switch. Mrs. Bewley didn't realize it was turned off, and she continued to push it back and forth dreamily. Gwen had to pull on the paw of her squirrel neckpiece. "MRS. BEWLEY," shouted Gwen, "I HOPE YOU'LL HAVE SOMETHING FOR ME AGAIN THIS YEAR FOR THE WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE?"
"TABLE?" bawled Mrs. Bewley. She patted her neckpiece. "NO, DEAR, IT'S SQUIRREL."
"TABLE, TABLE," bellowed Gwen. "DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING FOR THE WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE?"
"WHAT SAY?"
Gwen took a deep breath and tried again. "WHITE ELEPHANT," she shrieked. "WHITE ELEPHANT."
At last Mrs. Bewley understood. She vaulted with her scrawny old legs over a small chair and stuck her head out the window. "WHERE? WHERE?"
Gwen thought it over. If she screamed any louder she would have a miscarriage on the spot. She picked up a piece of John's drawing paper and a crayon and beckoned to Mrs. Bewley. It was no good writing, because Mrs. Bewley couldn't read. So Gwen drew a rough picture of the First Parish church. Then she outlined a table with some chipped dishes on it and a sign on a stick. Carefully she made the sign in the shape of an elephant, with a long trunk in front. Mrs. Bewley began to smile all over her gaunt old face. "OH. YOU MEAN WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE. YES, YES. I'M SURE I CAN SPARE A FEW THINGS FROM MY COLLECTION."
"THAT'S NICE. YOU'RE ALWAYS SO GENEROUS, MRS. BEWLEY."
Mrs. Bewley nodded and smiled. It was true, she was.
Downstairs Mary was ready to go. But at the front door she blanched. That Granville-Galsworthy fellow had taken to hanging around in the morning. He had a room on Belknap Street but some mornings Mary had suspected that he had been lurking outside all night. Grandmaw had complained of prowlers, and the other night Tom had nearly caught someone in the barn. It gave Mary the shivers. She opened the door a crack, thinking to dodge out the back way if he was there, and try driving off as if she hadn't seen him. But his sallow face swam up to the crack in the door. She jumped. He had been standing on the great granite step before the door.
"Oh, hello. Good morning."
"Good morning tew yew."
Mary walked quickly toward her car. Roland came, too. There was nothing for it but to ask if he'd like a lift. Where did he want to go?
"I'm going tew dew some research," he said. "Just let me out wherever you're going."
Research, my eye. "Well, I'm going to the police station. Is that all right?"
That was all right. Mary parked her car beside the station, and he got out and followed her to the door. She despaired. Was there no way she could rid herself of this limpet? Then he collided with someone who was hurrying around the corner of the building. It was Homer Kelly.
"G'morning," said Homer, scowling. Roland lifted his hat and faded away.
Mary silently thanked God. "Nice day," she said meekly. Homer glared at her, opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. Instead he opened the door for her. went in and leaned on the counter.
"Shrubsole," he said, "it's June."
"That's right, sir; lovely day."
"Miss Morgan and I will be out all day. Mind the store."
"Working on the case, are you, Mr. Kelly?"
"Naturally. You didn't think we would take a day off, and go boating on the river, or some frivolous thing like that, did you? We're just going to be doing some miscellaneous—ah—"
"Research," suggested Mary.
"That's it."
Sergeant Shrubsole was looking curiously at Homer. He lifted up his forefinger, rubbed it on his superior's cheek and looked at it. It came away pink with lipstick. Shrubsole shook his head, winked at Mary and drew an obvious conclusion. Homer hastily pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his face. Mary blushed, and, trying hard not to look unhappy, succeeded in looking guilty. But it wasn't her lipstick.
"Come on," he said testily to Mary, pushing her out the door ahead of him. He slammed the door. "Impertinent young fool."
"You've got some on your collar, too," said Mary. She licked her handkerchief and wiped at the smudge. Homer looked down at her and growled, "Where can we hire a canoe?"
"A canoe? Oh, I see. Our research is going to be..."
"Naturally. Boating on the river."
*39*
I left the village and paddled up the river to Fair Haven Pond ... 1 was soothed with an infinite stillness. I got the world, as it were, by the nape of the neck, and held it under in the tide of its own events, till it was drowned, and then I let it go downstream like a dead dog. —Henry Thoreau
"Wish I could go with you," said Tom. "I sure love this river. But what with crating asparagus and one thing and another a man hasn't a moment's peace this season. Here, why don't you use the outboard? See, it has its own battery. Doesn't make any noise at all."
Homer looked at the motor doubtfully. "Maybe we'd better just paddle," he said. "I don't know a thing about making motors work."
"Nonsense. You don't have to. This one's good for ten, eleven hours. Here, I'll start her up."
Gwen had made them a lunch in Annie's old plastic lunch-box. She came down to the edge of the river with Freddy to see them off. Freddy wanted to go, too. He wept as they shoved off from the shore into the middle of the dark stream. "Goodby, Freddy," shouted Homer. "Don't cry, and we'll bring you a turtle."
Freddy stopped crying right away. "Big," he said. "Big."
Out in the middle of the Assabet Mary could feel the sun drawing all the slivers from her mind. She knelt facing forward in the bow of the canoe and stared straight ahead so that Homer wouldn't see her smile. Grind away, hurdy-gurdy. (Henry Thoreau had spent half his life on the rivers.) Homer sat still in the stern, his hand on the tiller of the motor, his eyes on Mary's back. She was wearing a white dress. Unbidden, a quotation from Emerson floated into his head. Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. There was an asinine remark if ever there was one.
Mary pointed silently to a half-submerged log on which five turtles lay basking, leaning upon one another. They looked like overgrown shiny black beetles. Homer aimed the
canoe that way, but when they came near, the turtles all slid into the water. "Better on the way back, anyhow," he said.
They passed a heron, standing motionless, and later a fisherman, motionless as the heron. Cloudy heads of water willows filled the edges of the river. "We could be Indians," said Mary. "Everything must have looked just the same when they lived along this shore."
"You awful heap big squaw," murmured Homer. "Squaw Head-in-Clouds."
"Look," said Mary, "here's the junction of the three rivers. See? This is where the Sudbury comes in and joins the Assabet to flow on downstream as the Concord. We'll be at the North Bridge in a minute. It's just around the bend."
The Concord River was slower-moving, but the surface rippled slightly in the warm breeze and slipped over the still body of the rest. The reflections in the water were upside-down impressionist pictures of the shore. Then a pair of redwing blackbirds fluttered out of the buttonbushes and Homer lost his self-control. That did it. It was all so damn pretty. Almost as if it were trying to persuade him of something he didn't want to be talked into. Homer looked around nervously and started tearing into Concord. In his opinion it was a polite little suburban pesthole, living on its picayune history, full of proper little anglophilic old biddies in sneakers. It made him sick. It was like Brattle Street in Cambridge, where you could feel the ghostly whiskers of old dead professors tickling your cheek. Creepy, that's what it was.
Mary promised herself she wouldn't get angry. She looked up it the watery light under the arch of the Red Bridge and remembered that Henry Thoreau had cooled himself in the same spot on hot days. That was it. Cool down. Just cool down.
"And the Battle. Some battle. Absurd little hesitation waltz of a skirmish. Cradle of American liberty, my foot."
Well, all right then. Jump in when the rope swings. Jump, jump. Mary swung around to talk back. "You know what Emerson said about the battle? 'The thunderbolt falls on an inch of ground but the light of it fills the horizon!' "
