The Transcendental Murder

comes driving up tomorrow, innocent as a newborn babe? Who's going to put all them rocks back?'

'You are, dearie,' said Homer.

*32*

I cannot even whisper my thanks to those human friends I have ... And why should I speak to my friends? for how rarely is it that I am I; and are they, then, they? We will meet, then, far away... — Henry Thoreau

Homer Kelly sat in Jimmy's office in the police station on Walden Street, waiting for Mary. It was Saturday, her day. What was she late for? He twiddled his ballpoint pen, then started chewing the end of it. The phone rang.

'Homer?' said Mary. In the background he could hear the children of the Hand household and a great clatter of dishes. 'Gwen had to take Grandmaw into town for some new glasses, so I'm going to stay here with the children. I'm sorry.'

'Oh, hell,' said Homer testily. Damn the girl. She seemed to be public property. Any old body could call on her for any old thing any old time.

'Was there anything special? Could I do anything for you here?'

'Well, I wanted to go over Teddy's journal with you. There are some things in it I thought you might understand that I don't.'

'Why don't you come by for lunch, and bring it with you?'

Be brusque. Step on the flowers. 'Hmmm. Will all those kids be there?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Well, okay. But shut 'em up, will you?'

So he was that kind of man, thought Mary. Hated children. They would probably whine and fight all the time he was there. She hoped they did. Anybody that hated kids deserved what he got.

She was still slicing cucumbers when he came by a little early. 'Goodness, where did you get that dreadful tie?' said Mary. It was a chaste green silk affair.

'Rowena Goss gave it to me,' said Homer, looking down at it. 'She doesn't like my taste in ties.'

'Whatever can be the matter with her?' said Mary. She picked up three cucumber slices and arranged them on his tie like buttons.

Homer looked down at it admiringly. 'What about some sliced olives scattered around in between?'

'Freddy's banana!' said Annie. 'I'll cut it up for you!' She snatched it from Freddy. Freddy hollered. Annie squeezed the banana behind her and wouldn't give it back. Homer settled the argument with surprising tact, giving Freddy back all of his banana except a small piece, which Annie cut up and arranged carefully on his tie. 'There now,' he said, 'what's for lunch? Or do we just eat our clothes?'

Lunch was canned ravioli. It was the children's favorite. (Mary had been darned if she was going to prepare something special for him.) Homer ate it gracefully and meekly asked for more.

John looked at him and pointed. 'How do you like that plate?' he said.

Homer goggled at his plate. 'Fine,' he said. 'It's fine.'

'Isn't it clean?'

'Yes, sir, it's clean all right. Did you wash it?'

John nodded. 'Annie did the breakfast dishes, and I helped her. She didn't even have to wash that one.' He picked up his own plate, which was covered with ravioli juice and held it in front of his face so that it dripped, and licked it with his tongue.

See?' he said. Mary watched in dawning horror. John's tongue went around and around, thoroughly and efficiently. The plate was artistically, beautifully clean. Homer looked down at his own plate, his face lighting up with appalled understanding.

'John, you didn't!' Mary fell back against the wall and laughed. She couldn't stop. She went limp. Homer stared at her, then he snatched up her empty plate, licked it all over, spooned up a big helping of peas and dumped them on it. John and Annie got into the act and licked each other's knives and forks. Freddy understood the joke and licked his chair.

After lunch Mary put Freddy to bed for his nap and cleared the dishes off the table. Homer put Teddy's journal on it and sarted leafing through it. 'I feel sticky all over,' he said. 'Now, where are we? Look, right here. Entry of April 6, this year. He starts out: 'Only one month more______' See those dashes? Then there's a quote, I guess from Henry Thoreau: 'For joy I could embrace the earth; I shall delight to be buried in it.' Then he goes on in his own words. (Look at his spelling.)

Why can't I delight in it? Alas, I cannot. If I could only find thatt which I seek I would give itt all upp gladly. (And if I could onnly be sure that Goss can be silenced. That is an addittional thorn in my side). That star that I worshipp from afar will shine on when I am gone, as though this speckk on a disttant planet had never been. Her light will be as raddiant as ever, when I am no more.

'I think I understand his spelling,' said Mary. 'You see? He doubles consonants. Maybe it's because when he's stammering through a word it seems to have more than one B or P.'

Running down the sides of each page were marginal lists of the birds and wildlife seen each day. Mary read some of them. They were highly abbreviated and hard to decipher. She turned the pages slowly. The main part of the text was full of quotations. It occurred to her that Teddy had used Thoreau's journals as a kind of gloss on his own. Everything he did was seen in the light of something Henry had said or done. It was like her own movie music. She understood it very well.

'What do you suppose he means by that—'only one month more'?' said Homer. 'What was he waiting for? His month isn't up yet, even now. Only one month till what? It sounds as though he felt doomed, as though he had some sort of incurable disease or something. But Dr. Cosgro hasn't seen him, nor any other doctor in town. He hasn't been to Emerson Hospital for a checkup or anything. Nor to any Boston hospital or clinic, at least not under his own name. We even tried using the name Henry Thoreau, feeling like idiots. No luck. Do you suppose he had TB? With that cough... But why would he say, 'Only one month more,' as if he knew for certain just how much longer he had to go? It's a queer thing. And who do you suppose his shining star was? Some Concord girl?'

Mary had a sinking feeling. She was afraid she knew. Then they found the answer. Homer put his big finger on a line, and looked at her peculiarly. The passage recorded their own visit to Teddy's house, when he had been working on his birdbath.

She likes my new birdbath. She understands everything I say or do.

I satt next to her in the car, and she was sorry about my cough.

'It's funny,' said Homer. 'A girl that's as big and homely as you are and all. What do they see in you, anyway?'

'Oh, shut up.' Mary shook her head in sorrow. Poor, poor Teddy.

'Look here,' said Homer, 'where he goes on about 'that which I seek.' This time he seems to be looking for a 'him.' '

I thought today, just for a minnute, that I had found him. No such luck. Am I doomed to die without him? Sommetimes I have believed that he might take me up to heaven with him, if he could...

'Homer, you don't suppose—I know this is silly, but you don't think Teddy was looking for Henry Thoreau himself? Up there on Annursnac Hill? It's crazy, I know, but then Teddy was...'

'I wonder. Crackpot notion. He doesn't sound as daft as all that in this journal. But maybe—after all, who else could Teddy's 'he' be?'

*33*

It is not that we love to be alone, but that we love to soar, and when we do soar, the company