Being Henry David

8

It’s early morning in downtown Concord, but already the entire town seems wide awake. Sitting near the window inside the doughnut shop, I watch normal citizens go about their normal lives. Just the start of another day. A line of people snakes out the door, waiting to order their large coffees, doughnuts, and breakfast sandwiches. My coffee is black and I nibble on a double chocolate doughnut. Chocolate for breakfast. I thought it would cheer me up; make things look a little better. It doesn’t.

Once again, I’m in search of shelter. It’s hard to focus on moving forward in my completely unsettled life when I don’t even know where I’m going to sleep tonight. Plus, I’m running dangerously low on money. Something’s got to change soon. A part of me actually considers going back to New York to find Jack and Nessa. At least that way, I wouldn’t be so alone. And lonely.

With my teeth I rip open a packet of Advil that I bought at the convenience store across the street, and wash them down with bitter coffee. Maybe if I can get rid of this headache and stop feeling so dizzy, I’ll be able to think straight. Like some wounded animal, I want to curl up and hide until I feel better. Even animals can find a cave or a hole in a tree where they can rest. Where can I go?

When the workers behind the counter in their goofy paper hats start giving me funny looks and whispering to each other, I figure I’ve overstayed my welcome. I hit the streets and just walk. One foot and then the other foot, getting me somewhere. Anywhere. As if they know where they’re going, they take me down the street to the Concord Free Public Library. They take me up the stairs and through the front door. Public building. Warmth. Shelter. I’m in.

At first I’m kind of surprised that it’s not the Henry David Thoreau Memorial Library. I mean, isn’t everything in Concord named after Thoreau? And when I wander into the lobby, I’m sure at first that the life-size white marble statue of a guy sitting on a throne-like chair is Thoreau too. I almost expect him to get up off his marble throne and start yelling at me for being such a failure. But the base of the statue says he’s Ralph Waldo Emerson. That name again. Guess he was pretty famous in Concord. One of Thoreau’s buddies, maybe. Whatever.

Damn, my head hurts.

“Hank?”

At first I think I’ve imagined someone saying my name. But when I hear it again, I whirl around and see a big man in black horn-rimmed glasses standing behind me in the library lobby, smiling like he’s happy to see me.

I look at him blankly.

“Hank, it’s me.” When I still don’t respond, he pulls off the glasses.

“Thomas?”

He laughs at my stunned expression. “In the flesh. Good to see you, Hank.” He reaches out a huge hand to give me a cheerful smack on the shoulder that actually hurts.

“Good to see you,” I echo weakly.

“So what brings you to the library in the middle of the morning?”

“I want to take out books,” I say. Duh, I sound like a moron.

“Isn’t this a school day? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Well.” My mind races, and I remember what I said to Hailey two days ago. “I’m home-schooled, so I do a lot of projects on my own. Today I’m here to do some research for a paper I’m working on.”

“Well then, today’s your lucky day,” Thomas says, flashing straight white teeth. “In addition to being a historian, I’m the research librarian here.” He pulls up the right sleeve of his green T-shirt to show me the tattoo of a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Except that it’s wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses just like Thomas’s, and above the snake is one word in fancy Gothic lettering: “Bookworm.”

“I can hook you up with any research materials you might need.” He settles his black glasses on the end of his nose and sits down at his desk, fingers poised over his computer keyboard. He smiles up at me expectantly. “So.”

“So?”

“What’s the subject you’re researching today?”

My mind chokes, just when I need it to be creative.

“Well, I’m working on a paper about…” My glance drifts around the room, searching for something, anything that might inspire a potential research paper project. Nothing comes to me. Can’t think straight. Must be this stupid headache, the heat gathering under my skin, so distracting.

But then, I see them. Perched high on the ends of several bookshelves in the lobby, there’s a row of four statues. They’re carved in white marble like the Emerson one, except these are just the heads and shoulders of people, like the tops of their bodies were hacked off and set on pedestals.

“…famous people who lived in Concord. Since I’m new to the town and all, I thought it would be an interesting and educational subject for me to pursue.”

Lame, lame, lame. There’s no way Thomas is going to buy that. But I don’t seem capable of coming up with anything better. Thomas looks skeptical as he peers at me over his glasses, which I totally deserve, but then his glance follows mine, up to the statues.

“You mean, like those dudes up there?”

I offer a non-committal nod-shrug combo.

“Actually, that’s a really good place to start.” Thomas is such a huge history geek that he warms up to the subject immediately and starts telling me who each of the people are, but I’m having trouble concentrating. The guy who looks like he’s sitting on a throne is Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was a big-shot writer in his day. One of the statue heads is Ephraim somebody, and he created the Concord grape. That’s his claim to fame. Another head is Louisa May Alcott who mostly wrote books for girls. Then there’s Ebenezer who was a judge and whose last name is Hoar. I bet he got teased a lot in high school for that. When Thomas starts rambling on about the statue of Bronson Alcott, who was Louisa May’s dad and started some fancy progressive school or something, my eyes start to glaze over. I hope Thomas doesn’t notice. “And, of course, over here, is our friend Henry Thoreau.”

Thomas points to another pedestal off to his right, away from the other statues. On it is another one of those head-and-shoulder deals, but this time it’s Thoreau. I take a closer look, stare into those empty white statue eyes. I don’t remember him having such a huge nose.

“They all knew each other in Concord in the mid-nineteenth century and moved around in the same circles. I’ll look for one book of biographies that deals with all of them if you want,” Thomas says.

“Yeah, sure. That would be great.”

He leans over his computer screen, starts tapping away at the keyboard, and then jogs over to a nearby shelf to grab a book. Sitting back down at his desk, he leafs through it and attaches a yellow sticky note to each page that corresponds to one of the statue people. Then he hands the book to me like it’s the fricking Holy Grail.

“Thanks, man,” I say.

Thomas nods at me, all pleased with himself, but then takes a good long look at me and yanks off his glasses. “You feeling okay, Hank?” he asks me. “Your eyes look a little glassy.”

“Nah, I’m okay,” I tell him. “Just not getting enough sleep, I guess.”

“You’re not still sleeping at Walden, are you?” he asks in a low voice.

I force a laugh. “Of course not. That was just one of those things. Just that one crazy night.”

Thomas nods thoughtfully. “The night you fell out of the sky.”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, shuffle a bit, and pick up the book. “Thanks for this,” I tell him. “I’ll go read it right now.”

I duck into the next room, where there are tables and chairs for studying. I sit at a round table near the window, and scan the biographies of all the statue people in the book, including Emerson and Thoreau, just in case Thomas decides to grill me about them. But my head hurts so badly, it’s hard to focus. So when I’m done, I get up, cram all my stuff, including the library book, into my lost-and-found backpack, and do some exploring.

Down the hall, I find the men’s room. Pulling up my shirt in the stall, I can see the pus from my cut oozing through the bandage, even though I just changed it. The damn thing is throbbing and hurts like hell. So I change the bandage again, using fresh supplies I took from the nurse’s office before I left the school.

Continuing my scouting mission, I discover the library has three floors of books, plus a basement level with a boardroom and a candy machine. There are a lot of places where a guy seeking shelter could hide for a day or two. I buy myself a package of peanut butter crackers from the machine and eat them for lunch.

Back on the first floor, I sit on the big couch in the lobby next to the statue of Emerson in his chair, and under the watchful eyes of the other statues. Sinking into the comfort of the couch, I pretend to continue reading the library book Thomas gave me, so I won’t look like some random homeless person who just wandered into the library to take a nap. Even though that’s exactly what I am and exactly what I feel like doing. I close my eyes against the throbbing pain in my head.

“Hank, wake up. The library closes in ten minutes.”

“What? Oh. Okay.”

Garbled thoughts, twisted and confused, sinking in quicksand, can’t think. All I want is to sleep and sleep. I close my eyes again; drift back under.

“Look at me, Hank.” This time, Thomas has a hand on my shoulder and is gently shaking me. “You definitely don’t look well, my friend.”

I force myself to open my eyes wide, though it hurts. Everything hurts, especially my side, where the knife wound is throbbing. “I’m fine,” I lie. “Really.” Feeling like a drunk person, I peer around at my surroundings, not fully recognizing where I am, not caring. I pick up the library book and hand it back to Thomas. “Thanks. I’ll be going now.”

I get up, grab my backpack, and sway just a bit on my feet as I take a step toward the door.

“Hank, wait. At least let me make sure you get home.”

“No, it’s okay.” Not looking at him, I adjust the strap of the pack on my shoulder. “My parents should be outside right now to pick me up.”

Wanting to believe me, he nods, relief in his dark eyes, like maybe he actually cares what happens to me. A woman enters the lobby and I register dark hair and a blue sweater, but the rest of her is a blur.

“Thomas, I can’t get the main computer to shut down,” she says. “Something weird keeps popping up on the screen. Can you come take a look?”

“Sure, Annie. I’ll be right there.” He turns to me and says in a firm voice, “Well, you go home and get some rest now, okay, Hank?”

With a little wave, I pretend to head toward the front door as Thomas leaves the room. But as soon as he’s out of sight, I struggle to make my mind work, try to decide where to go, where to hide. What kind of security system would a library have, anyway? Cameras and alarms? Motion detectors?

There’s no time to think this through. Next to the couch in the lobby, there’s a grand piano, covered with a woven brown cloth that almost reaches the floor. When I hear Thomas’s voice rise in the other room, I dive under the piano. By accident, I hit the pedals and the piano makes a muffled, musical bang. I freeze. My heart thumps so loud I imagine it can be heard echoing through the entire library. Cowering, I wait for Thomas to come in and discover my hiding place.

“Come on, let’s go already,” I hear the woman librarian say to Thomas. “This place gives me the creeps after dark.” I hear their footsteps approach the front door. “It’s all your fault, you know. All that talk about the library being haunted. I’m going to have nightmares.”

Thomas laughs, apparently having forgotten all about me. “Sometimes I swear they’re here, especially late at night, trying to communicate with me.”

“You would think that.”

The library goes dark, and I hear the door click shut, locked from the outside, and then all is silent. More silent even than the high school, if that’s possible. Silent as a tomb.

I wait a long time, to make sure they’re really gone. When I start to get a cramp in my leg, I crawl out from under the piano. I don’t need to go far. The couch is right there, inviting me to lie down and sleep. It’s too short for my lanky body, but I don’t care. I collapse into it, feet trailing over the edge. Just need a good night’s rest, and tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do, how to find my sister. It’ll all be better after I sleep.

Just as I start to drift off, there’s this strange shushing sound, like the sizzle of the surf. But it gets louder and I recognize what it is. Someone is in this room with me, whispering. What the hell? I open my eyes to see who’s here, except that nobody is. I’m alone. Well, almost.

It’s the statues. Their lips aren’t moving in their frozen marble faces, but I can hear their voices. And after a moment, I can even make out what they’re saying.

That guy Ephraim Bull is whispering something like, “Look at me, I’m the Father of the Concord Grape,” and Louisa May Alcott is saying, “I wrote Little Women, a book beloved by girls all over the world.” It reminds me of a boring museum exhibit, or a maybe a video about prominent citizens of nineteenth century Concord, Massachusetts, they’d show kids in middle school. The statues are stiff and without emotion, as if the people they represent were statues too, who never laughed or cried, never got hungry or cold or sick.

“I am Bronson Alcott,” whispers the statue with huge eyebrows that look like fuzzy white caterpillars. He mumbles something about this place called Fruitlands he started, which sounds to me kind of like a 1960s commune that didn’t work out so well.

Some distant corner of my brain knows this is nothing but a crazy dream, inspired by the book Thomas gave me and brought on by the fever deep-frying my brain cells. But some other part of me is trying to convince me this is real, that the statues really do whisper to themselves in the Concord library at night after everybody goes home.

Ebenezer Hoar’s voice grows slightly louder as he states his reason for being memorialized in marble. “I was a judge and a congressman,” he says in a bland voice. Big deal. “And if you had appeared in my court, young man, I would have thrown you in prison for the rest of your natural life.”

Startled, I glance up at the statue. He is looking straight at me with those spooky white marble eyes without pupils. “And I wager no one would miss you.”

The others hiss in agreement, whispers that become threats and I realize there is nothing of the real Alcotts, Judge Hoar, Ephraim Bull, or Ralph Waldo Emerson in these statues at all. And somehow, they seem to know all the dark things about me that I can’t remember.

The floor under me starts to shake, and I don’t know if the eruption started inside the foundation of the building or someplace deep inside me. The whole library shudders with it, and the statues are silenced as their marble bodies tremble, then quiver toward the edge of their pedestals. Edging closer, closer, then with terrible silent screams, the statues fall one at a time and crash onto the library floor. Not solid marble at all, but with thin exteriors like eggshells that crack open and spew their true contents. Rotting meat crawling with maggots. Fat night-crawlers and green garter snakes and horned lizards. Broken shards of glass and twisted metal. Razor blades and knives and meat cleavers and spikes. The snakes slither toward me and I can smell rancid flesh.

Henry’s statue sits frozen on its pedestal, still intact, watching me with a detached kind of sympathy.

I try to say, do something, Henry, but can’t make any sound.

Bad spirits rise from the ruins of the statues then, curl toward me and lean over to stare into my face like they can extract information from me or maybe tap into my life force, jealous that their lives are over forever and I’m screwing up mine. They touch my hair and pull at my shirt.

Stop it. I try to swat at their fingers, turn away from their cold breath on my face, but I can’t move. Go away. Still can’t move, can’t speak, can’t shout, until at last, I can.

“Get away from me!” Hear my own voice at last, feel my body writhe.

“Shhh. Hank, it’s okay, you’re all right.” Somehow, Thomas is here. Thank God. Thomas. Is here.

“Thomas, make them stop, make them go away.”

“There’s nobody here, Hank, you’re just imagining it. You’re burning up with fever, buddy.” He has a cell phone in his hand and puts it to his ear. “Help will be here before you know it.”

I grab the phone, jab blindly at the Off button, throw it across the room, and scream at Thomas, begging him not to call anyone.

“Jesus, Hank. Calm down. You need help.”

But I’m begging, shouting at him like a mental patient. “Don’t call, please don’t call anybody, you don’t understand. Can’t let them find me.”

“Hank, look at me, open your eyes. Why can’t I call someone to help you?”

“My sister.”

“Your sister, Hank?”

“My sister needs me, I need to go to her. And I can’t help her if I’m in jail.”

Thomas rears back. “Jail? What are you talking about, Hank?”

“If you call somebody, they’re going to lock me up. Please. I beg you, please, Thomas. Please.”

My body heaves with sobs but I’m aware of this from a distance, like I see myself from the ceiling, or maybe I’m one of the statue heads back up on its pedestal, intact and hiding the ugliness inside, looking down and seeing the truth. I’m just a lost boy who has done something too terrible to remember, a trespasser into a world where I don’t belong.

Thomas goes quiet, but finally says, “Look, Hank, you can’t stay here. The library is opening soon. I’ll take you to my house and we’ll figure this out. Okay?”

I thank Thomas over and over and he helps me to my feet, wraps one of my arms around his neck and helps me walk outside to his motorcycle. He asks if I’m strong enough to hold on and I say yes, just don’t call the cops. We get on the bike and I lean against his wide back trying so hard not to pass out or fall off. And we ride for five minutes or fifty minutes or maybe it’s five hours and finally we’re at his house and he helps me to his couch and that’s all I know.