Thoreau in Love by John Schuyler Bishop Page A

turned inside out, his stomach up, so his feet and his head almost touched. I thought he’d break his back. Or else he’d all tighten up and thrash and thrash and scream with pain. And then that stupid smile when his jaw locked up. I held him when he died. When he took his last breath. God, he struggled. Even if he started out intending to, he struggled so just to take the smallest breath. He knew. Life’s desperate struggle. He knew he’d taken his last breath. And his throat closed. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. Absolute, utter terror. And that stupid lockjaw grin on his face.”
    Henry sucked in another breath, trying not to cry. “I didn’t think I’d ever get over his death. He was the only one really knew who I was.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.
    “It’s okay,” said Ben, and he crawled beside Henry and held him. And Henry wept, not just for his brother, but more because no one had ever treated him as warmly, as lovingly as Ben. “I can’t believe you’re just sitting here, holding me,” said Henry. And Ben squeezed him tighter. And took out his snot rag and gave it to Henry, who wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
    “There’s something about you, Henry Thoreau. I’ve met plenty of people, but never anyone like you. You have the fate.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You have the moon and the stars in you. I can see the universe in your eyes. In the daylight they’re gray, but at night they turn silver and glow, like they’re lit from within.”
    “I’m odd-looking; that’s what everyone says.”
    “Not everyone, Henry. When I first saw you, I thought, Oh Lord, he’s handsome. I hope he’s one of our passengers.”
    Henry wanted to say that Ben was the real universe, but he feared that if he did it would sound like one compliment in exchange for another. So instead he asked Ben, “Would you like me to read you some poems I translated from the Greek?” and reached into his duffel bag and pulled out folded papers and read Ben several poems, ending with a ribald lyric about a man’s love for a boy.
    “What is that one?” said Ben? “I didn’t know there were poems like that.”
    “I thought you’d like that. There are lots of them. But translators always change one of the he’s to a she before they publish it.”
    “Let me see them?”
    Henry handed Ben his prized possessions, and Ben pored over them. “This is amazing. God, I can’t believe the Greeks wrote such things.”
    As Ben silently read the poems, he kept adjusting himself in his trousers, which in turn excited Henry. Then, without emotion, Ben said. “I’m ready to turn in. You?”
    It was what Henry had been waiting for. “I get the inside.” Before Ben could move, Henry scooched his legs under the covers and was against the wooden hull, facing out. Now cheerful, Ben said, “Okay.” He pulled off his shirt and climbed under the covers, and Henry wrapped his arm around Ben’s naked chest. “I love when you touch me,” said Ben, and pushed his bum into Henry’s crotch. Henry couldn’t believe he was in bed again with Ben, holding him close. Although he was aroused, he didn’t want to risk ruining the moment by making any moves, even when Ben wriggled his bottom so it enveloped Henry’s stiff shaft. “You’re nice and warm,” said Henry, pulling Ben closer, reveling in his slightly acrid scent, his soft skin, how Ben’s stomach rose and fell against his arm with each breath. Lulled by the ship’s motion and a happiness he’d rarely felt, Henry fell into a deep sleep.

5
    The next afternoon, they anchored briefly in New London to drop off and pick up freight from a scow and take on a passenger who was a regular on this run. Drunk as could be, the rotund little man sang merrily the whole way he was being rowed in a dinghy, once standing in crescendo and nearly falling overboard. With much laughter, the crew hoisted him on board. He sloppily kissed everyone who helped before they deposited