Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t recall meeting you that day.”

  His gaze was so lacking in guile that I believed him at once, yet the fact that he could lock the event away in his mind troubled me. I wanted to take him by his shoulders and shake the memory back into him. What did it signify that a mind as sharp and penetrating as Henry’s could shut away an entire afternoon’s ordeal in some compartment of his brain? How could a man put any event of his life at such a vast remove from his knowing self?

  And then a new thought chilled me. Had he forgotten not only the fire he set in the woods, but also the fire he’d set in me? Was it possible that he’d also locked away our love for each other in some never-to-be-opened partition of his mind?

  The thought left me feeling an odd blend of sorrow and relief. Perhaps Henry’s recent remoteness did not hide the guilt and remorse I’d imagined, but a willing renunciation of memory. He’d turned back the clock to before our tryst, and had locked the recollection away deep inside himself. Yet even as he willfully turned away from it, our secret was within me, readying itself to greet the world.

  After the fire, word spread throughout Concord and neighboring towns that Henry Thoreau was a shiftless, irresponsible young man, careless to the point of danger. Some suggested he should be arrested and tried. He seemed oblivious to the rumors, yet over the course of the summer I noted another change—one so subtle that many did not perceive it. I believe he began to accept and even appreciate the ways in which he had been misunderstood. He started to wrap himself in his eccentricities as if they were a grand cloak.

  I mentioned my concerns to Mr. Emerson. “People are beginning to regard Henry as either offensive or ridiculous,” I said one warm August day after dinner as we lingered over Nancy’s sweet apple cobbler. “He’s become a sort of clown. Perhaps you should let him know that this posturing is having a disagreeable effect.”

  “He’s not a clown but an antagonist.” Mr. Emerson pierced a spicy brown slice of apple with his fork and lifted it to his lips. “It’s his habit of contradiction. He substitutes the word everyone expects with its exact opposite. He praises wild forests for their domesticity, ice for its warmth, woodchoppers for their urbanity. Channing finds this habit charming.” He opened his mouth and ate the apple slice, watching me as he did so.

  “And you?” I demanded. “Do you also find his contradictions amusing?”

  He put down his fork. “We must allow Henry to be Henry.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have letters to write.” He rose and left the dining room, leaving me to ponder the matter alone.

  One fact was undeniable—Henry was growing into a peculiarity not unlike my own—one that set him apart from the world and condemned him to set a private moral compass. Thus, though we were separated in our situations, we grew more alike in our strangeness, as if the very forces that sought to isolate us rebounded to draw us closer together.

  MY LABOR PAINS BEGAN on July ninth, while I was in the midst of the day’s chores. I’d rolled up my sleeves in the sultry afternoon, but rivers of perspiration ran down my arms and back and legs. By evening, when it became apparent that my labor was in earnest, I sought out Mr. Emerson in his study.

  “My time has come,” I said and watched him rise from his chair, his face flooding with alarm, his arms reaching to support me even before he’d crossed the room. In that moment I felt an affection I’d not felt toward him in years. I leaned upon him readily and allowed him to guide me across the hallway into the Red Room, which we’d agreed would make a worthy birthing chamber. His hands, as they helped me remove my gown and assist me into bed, were strong and steady, unusually capable, as if he’d acquired an uncommon grace for that circumstance alone.

  In the throes of labor all my resistance to Mr. Emerson vanished. I lay in my shift while he stroked my hands and forehead. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the sound of crickets grating through the open window. The humid air amplified their rasping so that it reminded me of a woman’s despondent cries.

  “You’d best get the midwife,” I gasped, during an especially strong pain.

  He nodded. “Have you arranged for Cynthia Thoreau again?”

  “No. No, not Cynthia. Lucy. I want only Lucy.” My pain subsided. “Send Nancy for her.”

  “I will.” He squeezed my hand. He seemed oddly reluctant to leave me.

  “Quickly,” I said, gasping as another pain began to grip my lower back. “Tell her to hurry.”

  He ran from the room. I heard his feet thumping down the hall to the kitchen, where Nancy was likely sitting on the back stoop, trying to catch what breeze she could. I was alone for only a few moments when Mr. Emerson returned. He drew a chair close to my bedside and began to talk quietly of simple, homely things, avoiding any topics that might upset me. Several times he touched my arm and stroked it. From the frequency with which he shifted in the chair, I knew he was uneasy in his role, that he wished as fervently as I that my travail would soon be over.

  “Are the pains very bad?”

  I turned my head and saw a compassion in his eyes that I’d never noticed. At that moment I believed him the most devoted husband in the world. I pushed myself up, braced my back against the headboard, and pulled him to me. It was a gesture I’d not made since the early days of our marriage and I was shocked at my own boldness. Yet he did not draw away, but put his arms around me, supporting and enfolding me. I breathed in the soap-and-salt scent of his shirt and his warm skin beneath. I listened to the steady, strong cadence of his heart. I felt another pain begin to mount. Instead of releasing him, I clung more tightly. When it was over, my arms dropped away and he lowered me gently onto the pillows.

  “It grieves me that I can’t be of some service.” His voice sounded cracked and old.

  “You are.” I smiled. His mouth was drawn tightly against his teeth, as if he, too, experienced my ordeal. In that moment, my heart flooded equally with love and guilt. I prayed that this noble man who was my husband was also my child’s father. I reached up and pressed my hand to Mr. Emerson’s cheek.

  A moment later Lucy came in, ordered Nancy to bring water and a supply of clean cloths, and abruptly banished my husband from the room. She then opened all the windows and drew back the curtains to allow what cool air there was into the room. She rubbed my feet and applied cold compresses to my forehead and arms. And when I wept from exhaustion, she wiped my face with her handkerchief and whispered encouragement.

  In the middle of the night, I woke from a swoon to find Lucy’s hand covering my mouth. I looked up at her—my mind abruptly, briefly, clear, as if a wind had swept everything away except a shared unspoken knowledge—and knew that I had spoken Henry’s name aloud. I felt horror rise, but it was overtaken by a crushing pain, and I fell back into the confounded state of a woman seized by labor. Yet there lingered in me a certainty that I’d made a terrible confession and that Lucy now knew what had transpired in the hayloft between Henry and me.

  My second son was born a few hours before dawn. I lay back on the pillows, dazed, watching Lucy wipe the blood and mucus from his tiny body.

  “Is he healthy?” He had cried only once, a weak fluttery cry. I pushed myself to a sitting position and reached for him. “Give him to me!”

  “Be patient, Liddy. You’ve waited nine months. You can wait a moment more.” Lucy turned her back so I could no longer see the child. A crazed panic seized me and I was certain the babe was not well—that he was deformed. Or perhaps—and the thought caused me to sit up straight despite my soreness and exhaustion—the child was Henry’s after all, born a month too soon.

  “Lucy!” I snatched ineffectually at her dress. Finally she faced me and placed the babe on the foot of the bed, where she swaddled him tightly in a blanket and slid him into my arms. I stared down into a red face with slited eyes and a delicate rose mouth. One hand came loose from the swaddling and opened and closed near his left cheek.

  “Something’s wro
ng,” I whispered, convinced that Lucy’s reaction signaled some calamity, though I could not yet perceive it.

  Lucy made a soothing sound. “I think he’s fine. Nice and pink and healthy.” She touched the tip of her finger to my son’s palm. “Just a quiet one.”

  I gazed down at my new son who had begun to root for my breast. Was he Mr. Emerson’s child—a full-term baby? Or was he the child of my shame, born early and weak? I couldn’t tell. I drew back the blanket and studied his body for some sign of unsoundness but found none. I searched for some indication of his paternity, yet he looked as my other babes had—dark hair and pale skin, the round chin and button nose of all infants. He appeared completely normal. It occurred to me that Dr. Bartlett would know if the babe was full term or not. Yet I realized if I pressed the issue—if I asked too many questions—he would want to know the reason. And sooner or later he’d guess my secret.

  In that moment, I realized I would never know the true identity of my son’s father.

  I bared my breast and offered him my nipple. His lips opened but he did not grip it properly. I slid my finger inside his mouth and brushed his palate and his mouth closed around my finger. I worked with him patiently while Lucy hovered until finally he took my breast. Moments later he was suckling with steadily increasing vigor. I smiled in relief. It was a good sign. I did not know if he was an early babe, but he was well-formed and would thrive.

  I looked up at Lucy. “Please go and tell Mr. Emerson that he has a son.”

  “I DID NOT THINK it would be a boy,” my husband said, his voice heavy. He sat in the same chair as before, though it was now in its original position by the window, where Lucy had moved it before the turmoil of delivery. His hands were planted on his knees, reminding me of the time I’d questioned him after his proposal. The “closed-eye interrogation” is how he teasingly referred to it, thus setting aside the seriousness and solemnity of my inquiry. Yet I perceived now—as I had not then—that his posture was constrained and stiff—controlled by some discomfort or inadequacy.

  Earlier he’d entered the room carrying Edith and Ellen, whom he’d awakened to inform them of their new brother’s arrival. Lucy had allowed each girl one peek into the blanket’s folds. Ellen took a long, hard look, then frowned up at Lucy. “When Papa said brother, I thought it was my real brother.” Her voice was high and sweet. “Where’s Wallie?” Lucy immediately swept her from the room, leaving Mr. Emerson and me staring at each other.

  Now my husband shook his head sadly. “I always wanted my son to bear my name. But I don’t have the heart to call this new one Waldo.”

  “Nor do I,” I whispered.

  Wallie seemed suddenly present in the room—a phantasm of light and shadow that I longed to grasp and draw to myself. “He’s here!” I whispered, my gaze sliding from one corner of the room to the other, as if I might by this restless seeking light upon some trace of my eldest son.

  “Who?” My husband’s word sounded as if it had been wrenched from his mouth.

  “Wallie,” I said. “He’s with us right now! I’m sure of it! Can’t you feel him?”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t.” He rose and came to stand by the bed, looking down at the babe in my arms. “I’ve sometimes wished I had your spiritual sensibilities, Lidian. But more often I think they must be a great trial to you. A burden of discernment I’m happier without.” He did not say so, but I knew that he believed that I, too, would be better off without them.

  I looked down at the babe. “I think we must name him tonight, Mr. Emerson,” I said. “I don’t want him to go nameless for weeks as Edith did.”

  “Where’s the harm?”

  “I just don’t.” My voice was sharper than I’d intended. I tried to think of a suitable name, and Henry flared in my mind—a small, bright flame that I immediately extinguished.

  “How about William, then?” He slid his hands down into his pockets, then pulled them out again and took a step back. “Or Thomas, after your uncle.”

  “What about Charles?”

  He shook his head sharply. “No. Not Charles.” He went to the window and looked out, as if he might be able to discern something in the darkness. It was an unfriendly posture, his back presented in that way; it felt repudiating. “He doesn’t look much like the others, does he?” he asked after a while, twisting to look at me over his shoulder. My back knotted and I inadvertently jostled the baby, who fretted as I straightened on my pillows. I did not know if Mr. Emerson was earnestly asking this question or if it was yet another token of his bereavement. And what did it mean—what did it portend?

  “Of course he does,” I said. “He looks exactly as Ellen did when she was born.”

  He seemed to draw some comfort from my assurance, for he turned full around then and said, “We could call him Edward.”

  “Edward?” I had never met my husband’s older brother, who had perished in Puerto Rico, nor did he often speak of him.

  “There’s a pleasant symmetry in having all our children’s names begin with the same letter.” He smiled—yet it was his lecture smile, the smile he used to charm the crowds who revered him. It was not the smile he gave to his friends. “We could use Waldo as his middle name.”

  I felt as if some opiate had suddenly filled my brain and I could no longer distinguish pain from pleasure—as if it were all one. “Edward is a good name,” I said, through lips that felt numb and stiff. “Edward Waldo Emerson.”

  As I spoke the name, my husband returned to my side. “Yes, I think that will do very well.” He sounded relieved, as though he’d just wakened from a troubling dream. He reached down and touched the baby’s cheek—Edward’s cheek—with his forefinger, and held it there, as if imprinting a seal on the soft pink skin. His fingernail glinted in the lamplight.

  HENRY WAS NOT in Concord when Edward was born, for he had gone off to the Catskill Mountains on his postponed walking tour. These excursions became more frequent after our encounter in the barn. Although he never said a word to indicate there was a connection between our intimacy and his wilderness explorations, I was convinced they were related.

  I could not fairly consider his absence at the time of Edward’s birth to be anything but coincidence. Yet his unavailability during my hour of travail—especially after he’d been present when I labored with Edith—seemed to signify his desire to withdraw from the new child. I knew this notion was nonsense, that my thoughts were irrational and founded in ignoblity, yet they persisted. When Henry finally presented himself at my chamber door ten days after the birth, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand and a smile on his face, I refused him my usual warm welcome.

  “Where have you been? The child is ten days old!” I fumed at my skirts and snapped the folds of my cap behind my ears. I had just tucked Edward into his cradle and seated myself by the window, where a faint breeze stirred the curtains. I’d reached the stage of my confinement where I felt incarcerated, and yearned for escape.

  Henry took a step back and his hand, which had been about to proffer the flowers, fell to his side. “I came as soon as I was able. I’ve been away.”

  “I know you’ve been away. The whole town knows you’ve been away.” I saw from his face that I’d wounded him, yet I could not still my tongue. “Not that you gave me any notice. If you told Mr. Emerson, he neglected to inform me.”

  “I’m here to offer my congratulations,” he said quietly. He stepped back again, so that he now stood in the doorway. “Perhaps another time would be better.”

  “I would think you’d want to see the child before you leave.” I looked directly at him. He returned my gaze, but showed no comprehension of the significance of my words. Did he truly believe he could not be the child’s father? Had I convinced him of what I had not been able to convince myself?

  “Yes,” he said, “I’d like that, of course. But only at your convenience.” His face was faintly damp with perspiration. I perceived his vulnerability, the fatigue that lay in the muscles of his cheeks, les
s like a sleeping cat than a stalking one. I felt a wave of pity. My anger folded upon itself and wilted, a blossom shriveling in the snow.

  I rose and extended both hands. “Forgive me. I’m nearly frantic from lack of activity. Who decreed that a woman must be restricted so long to her chamber after giving birth?”

  He blinked and came toward me, pressing the bouquet into my outstretched hands. “I know nothing of women’s mysteries. But it seems to me that rest is so rarely available to you, Lidian, that you ought to make use of it while you can.”

  I brought the bouquet to my face and pressed my nose into a yellow lily.

  “Thank you,” I said, raising my face. “I appreciate your concern.” I drew closer and touched his arm, then—to my own surprise as well as his—leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His eyes flashed, and I saw that I’d embarrassed him, for the tips of his ears reddened noticeably.

  “Come and see the babe,” I said, turning quickly away. I laid the flowers on the bed and crossed the room to the cradle, wondering at myself. The kiss that seemed so natural—so necessary—at the moment of impulse, now struck me as a sign of my abiding iniquity.

  I bent and picked up Edward. His eyes, which had already turned from the newborn’s state-gray to a clear, dark blue, fluttered open. I handed him to Henry, aware of the possibility that I might, at that moment, be presenting my son to his father.

  Henry cradled Edward’s head in the crook of his left elbow, and stared down at him for some time in silence. I wondered if he studied him—as I had—for a telling family likeness, some defining hint of his paternity. Yet he made no remark on his appearance, but merely asked the child’s name.

  “Edward,” I said.

  He nodded. “Edward. I like that. I believe it suits him.”