Being Henry David Read online

  And there’s one more thing. If I was Thoreau reincarnated, I bet he would’ve wanted me to complete something he couldn’t in his own lifetime: reach the true summit of Mount Katahdin. So here I am, for both of us.

  I set Walden at the base of the sign like a sacred offering to the gods. Then I take from my pocket the smooth white stone I brought from Walden Pond, and set it on top of the book to keep it anchored.

  “There you go, Henry,” I say. “You made it.” I stand there for a long time. Then I turn to walk back down the mountain.

  Luckily there’s more than one route to and from the summit, so I decide to avoid Knife Edge this time by choosing a different path down the mountain. I’ve walked only a few minutes when I spot a man with a crooked walking stick about fifty feet below me and heading my way. He pauses to take off his straw hat and wipe rain and sweat off his forehead with a red bandana. Something about the way he stands, his black goatee and muscular build, look familiar.

  The man looks up at me, shields his eyes against the sun, and waves, the bandana like a banner in his hand.

  I wave back in disbelief. “Thomas,” I call out, and I start to laugh. “What are you doing here?”

  But of course I know what he’s doing here. It wouldn’t take much for a research librarian–historian to figure out where I was going when I left Concord. After all, he planted the idea in my head to begin with. And now, he has come to find me.

  “Dan!” he shouts back. At first I’m startled to hear him use my real name, and Dan instead of Danny, but it’s okay somehow. In fact, I like it. When I climbed up the mountain this morning, I was still Hank. I’m not Hank anymore. But in truth, I’m not Danny either. For good or for bad, I’ll be Dan Henderson from now on. New name, fresh start.

  I’m so busy smiling like a goofball and lumbering down the mountain toward Thomas, I almost trip on an outcropping of granite in the middle of the path. By the time I recover and look back to where Thomas waits, there’s another man standing behind him.

  It’s a tall man wearing shorts and hiking boots with black shaggy hair poking out from under a baseball cap. I can see the logo from here. The Chicago Cubs. We both stand there, frozen, allowing this stunning reality to break over us.

  “Dad?”

  “Danny.” My father speaks my name, his voice lifted to my ears by the same wind that nearly pushed me off the mountain. I hold the moment like it’s a paper-winged butterfly, unable to believe the fragile truth of it.

  Gravity pulls me down the mountain path, to the place where my father stands and waits, his arms open wide.

  I collapse against my father’s chest and he squeezes the breath out of me with his strong arms. He came all this way to find 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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