The Seeker: A Mystery at Walden Pond

by R. B. Chesterton

  “Let me take you to the cabin.” He caught my arm, and I realized for the first time that I wore tight-fitting sleeves that went with a long black dress. My feet were bare, a fact he disapproved of.

  “You must care for yourself,” he instructed. “I fear for you, Bonnie. You can’t let them lure you out here. Impulsiveness can be the same as carelessness.”

  I didn’t need to answer. He didn’t expect me to speak.

  “You can’t risk your health.” He led me through the trees to a clearing with a small wooden cabin. He assisted me inside and ushered me to a chair beside a stove. The weight of my belly was exhausting. Large and tight as the skin of a drum. Running my hand over it, I felt the thrum of new life.

  Outdoors in the sun, I’d been warm enough. Now I was cold. He noticed and wrapped a blanket around me. His hands lingered on my shoulders, the warmth of his palms comforting and yet disquieting.

  “I can’t do this alone,” I told him.

  “We need nothing but each other.” He kissed my cheek and pulled the blanket tighter around me. “Two against the world.”

  His words were both comforting and disquieting.

  Knuckles rapping the door of the cabin pulled me up from the depths of sleep. I came to the surface of the dream sobbing. Obeying my first impulse, I clutched my flat stomach, greatly relieved that it wasn’t swollen with child. The intensity of the nightmare was such that I had felt the pull of the unborn child’s weight, the oceanic turning of the fetus in the womb so similar to the sensation of my other dream, that of a whale calf somersaulting in the Atlantic.

  “Aine!” Patrick’s voice called sharply. He must have been battering the door for some time.

  “Coming.” I pulled the sheet around me and went to the door. Patrick balanced a tray on one hand, the other aloft to knock again.

  “Dorothea sent you hot soup, but it’s likely cold now, since I’ve been pounding on your door for fifteen minutes.” His tone was annoyed, but his gaze roved over my bare shoulders and down to my hand clutching the sheet. “Busy?” He looked past me into the room, no doubt expecting to find my lover.

  “Put it on the table.” I stepped back to allow him to enter and closed the door against the icy blast of wind. A spasm of coughing took hold of me and I doubled over.

  “Hey!” Patrick had relieved himself of the tray and caught my shoulders in both hands, reigniting the memory of the dream. “Get yourself back in that bed!” He half-pushed, half-carried me. He pulled the covers high on my chest. “Woman, you don’t have a tot of sense.”

  The coughing fit had passed, and I found myself amused at Patrick’s concern. Whether feigned or real, he made me believe he was worried. “Thank you. I’ll wear the cough out soon enough.”

  “Not if you stand half-naked in open doorways.”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.” I realized how flirtatious the words were as soon as I spoke, but there was no getting them back. Such behavior was wildly inappropriate, and shame heightened the heat in my face. “Thank you for bringing the soup.”

  “I’ll get more wood.” He struck a ridiculous pose and flexed a muscle. “I have the brawn to tend to the needs of a beautiful sick woman.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The foolish exuberance of youth and good health amused me. His unrelenting attempts to seduce me were a delicious serving of flattery, but he knew, as I did, that it would come to nothing. “I’m not really sick. It’s just a bad cold.”

  “It gives me pleasure to help you, so pretend to be a damsel in distress.”

  There was wisdom in his flippant sentence, and a truth I’d never faced head-on. “Stoke the fire.” I waved a feeble hand. “And maybe you could feed me, too. I’m so weak I may expire.” I slumped into a classic swoon.

  “That’s more like it.” He brought the tray to the bed and lifted a spoonful of broth to my lips.

  The intimacy silenced my tongue, but my heart pounded. I’d laid the challenge and he’d called my bluff. As the adult, I had to set the boundaries. He was a young man and Dorothea’s surrogate son. She wouldn’t be amused. It was up to me to control the situation. I was older, not to mention contagious.

  I took the bowl and spoon. “Thank you, Patrick. You’re a considerate young man.”

  “I’m not just a boy.” He pushed my hair from my face. “You’re beautiful, Aine.”

  I caught his hand. “Hardly. I’m a doctoral student worn to a frazzle. And I’m sick. I shouldn’t flirt with you. It’s wrong.”

  He made no attempt to touch me again, but he didn’t leave the bedside. “Why are you so scared of feeling? Who hurt you?”

  “I never took you for a sensitive young man.”

  He laughed at my honesty. “Just because I like girls and they like me back doesn’t mean I’m thick as a brick wall. I’ve watched you. The way you’re always alone, even around other people.”

  I put the soup on the bedside table. “You are observant. Right now, I’m focused on my work. That’s the way it has to be. You’re a handsome young man. I see the girls who come here to be near you. You can have your pick of all of them.”

  “I’m interested in you.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Patrick. You only think you’re interested because you know it’s impossible.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He picked up the tray and left without a backward glance.

  8

  The fever passed and I met Joe at Walden Pond. The sky was blue and the sun was out. The snow had melted, but there was no doubt that winter had set in for good. Barrenness pervaded the scenery. Not unpleasant, but different from the dancing golden foliage I’d encountered when I’d first ventured around Walden.

  Standing at the edge of the pond where I’d found the doll, I saw no sign of humanity except for the man beside me. We could have been dropped into a wilderness at any point in time. A songbird, which should have long been south for the winter, trilled a buzzy sree and a sharp whistle. Civilization might be a mile away, or a hundred.

  Joe’s thoughts must have run somewhat parallel to mine, because he said “Makes you wonder how Thoreau stood it, all by himself. He had to walk to town for human company and the weather often kept him barricaded in his cabin. I guess back then folks spent more time alone with their thoughts.”

  I held my peace. While my general dissertation topic was not privileged information, my groundbreaking revelation was. I had learned that for the area population, Thoreau was sacrosanct. Messing with his reputation could be like stirring a hornet’s nest with a short stick. “You must be alone a good bit as a state ranger.”

  His deep laugh was confident. “Lots of time to read. I’ve always loved books. The more popular types. Writers with a story to tell.”

  “Most of our greatest writers were popular. Dickens, Shakespeare, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Collins, Poe. They were storytellers first and foremost.”

  “Why are you studying Thoreau if you speak so fondly of the plotters? Thoreau wasn’t much for story. Philosophy and thought.”

  Strangely enough, I wanted to share with him. “I have a family connection to Thoreau.”

  “Cryptic.”

  I couldn’t help it, the laughter bubbled out. He’d hammered me with one word. “Okay, a family member knew Thoreau. I have some journals that give a unique perspective on him and his work.”

  “Care to give a few more details?” he asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  He considered that and wisely changed topics. “Are you over your cold?”

  “I am, thank you.” Our coats brushed against each other, sounding a little zing. I pointed. “This is the place.” Focusing on the chore at hand seemed like the smartest action. My awareness of Joe was acute, so I turned my profile to him.

  “What are you thinking, Aine?” he asked.

  “Nothing of importance.” I pulled my lips into a smile. Women who didn’t smile weren’t trustworthy, I’d learned.

  “Oh, I doubt you have
unimportant thoughts,” he teased.

  “I miss the snow.” It was the first thing that popped into my head. I briskly rubbed my arms, though I wasn’t cold. His scrutiny made me want to move, to run, to suck in big lungfuls of the cold crisp air and yell with the joy of being alive and able to feel. It was as if I’d stepped off solid ground into magic.

  “You say there were no footprints where you found the doll?” Joe continued, unaware of my emotional turmoil.

  “Are you implying that I’m a liar?” My response was out of left field. I had to get a grip on myself. “I’m sorry, I just don’t like to be called a liar.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” His tone was patient. “It’s a time issue. The Barbie was on top of the snow, you said. Yet the footprints had been covered by snow. It’s a way to judge what time the doll was left. Speaking of which, did you bring it?”

  “I burned it.”

  Disbelief pinched his face. “Why?”

  How to explain that the doll had moved by itself onto my bed? If Joe thought the lack of footprints was hard to believe, the doll escaping my coat pocket and climbing onto the bed would prove I was nuts. “It unnerved me. Barbies objectify women. I offered her to you at the coffee shop. You should have taken her then if you wanted her.” He’d been uninterested at the coffee shop, so why now?

  What seemed to be relief swept across his features. “No, I didn’t want the doll. I should have examined it, though. My fault, not yours.”

  “I overreacted. I’m sorry.” I could help with a few details. “She wore the blue, white, and silver ball gown and shoes of the snow queen from Swan Lake. I don’t think that’s an official Barbie outfit, but it was exquisitely made.”

  “Official outfit?”

  “Only one company makes official Barbies and her various outfits. When I was a kid, there was Shopping Barbie and Tango Barbie and Nurse Barbie. As far as I know, there wasn’t a Snow Queen model. Not made by Mattel.” I wasn’t a Barbie expert. Dolls had never been my thing. I was more of a tomboy, but I’d done some research. “I think someone made the ball gown. Hand-stitched. Someone with a lot of skill.”

  He turned away and stared into the distance. “And you saw no one near here?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone here. Except you.”

  He cupped a hand on my elbow. “Let’s get you back to a warm place. You might be over the worst of the cold, but freezing won’t do you any good.”

  I’d hoped for a hike around the pond, but my strength flagged even as we headed back to the little cabin that was a replica of the one where Thoreau and Bonnie lived. A docent was there to unlock it and welcome the tourists—an unlikely occurrence in the cold. Joe steered me to his car.

  “Could we get a coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure.” His reaction was unreadable.

  He drove to the Honey Bea and we hurried out of the cold and into the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. Joe ordered two coffees and two sticky buns. “Very presumptuous,” I said, but I took away the sting with a smile.

  “You look like you lost twenty pounds while you were sick. And I’m starving. If you don’t want yours, I’ll eat both.”

  “You’ll have to fight me.”

  We settled at a table and fell on the hot, sweet rolls as soon as they were served.

  Our conversation centered on Thoreau and his writing. I let Joe talk, offering a few insights. We finished the food and coffee, and he rose to take me home.

  At the cabin, he stopped me before I got out of his truck. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  His invitation caught me unprepared. I had no ready excuse, and didn’t want to turn him down. Conflicting emotions assailed me. It was a mistake to accept the date, but I was lonely. I’d been by myself for a long time. And I liked Joe. Maybe too much. “Okay.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six and we’ll drive into Boston. Have a few drinks at Bayside Bill’s, then dinner at Filbert’s. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect.” My dating experience with men was limited, but I liked that he knew how to arrange an evening. He made the choices and asked if I wanted to go along. None of the waffling of modern men. “Casual?” I wasn’t familiar with either establishment, but Joe didn’t strike me as a tie-and-tails kind of man.

  “You named it.” He opened his door but before he could exit the truck, I popped out. “See you at six.”

  9

  In Bayside Bill’s, the Bay State accents were as ubiquitous as the beers sliding down the bar. It was a rambunctious place filled with loud laughter and cheers for a televised football game. Celtic music floated in the background—tin whistle, drum, and fiddle. Among the raucous crowd, Joe was known and well-liked. Men came to our table to slap him on the back and check me out. New blood. It wasn’t a bad feeling.

  A pretty redhead at the bar felt otherwise. If looks could kill, I would be skewered to the wall with a spear in my heart. Joe had a sweetheart, whether he liked it or not.

  “Who is she?” I asked, staring at her. She refused to back down, even when I’d caught her glaring.

  “Her name is Karla Steele.” A flush touched his cheeks. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or anger.

  Karla Steele had pretty eyes, nice hair, a good figure. “What went wrong?”

  Joe touched my hand, the first intimacy of the evening. “I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known she was here. Please just ignore her. She’s not … stable.”

  “In that she might come over here and pull my hair for dating her beau?” I meant to be flip, but my attempt at humor failed.

  “She’s liable to do more than pull your hair, Aine. She’s an unhappy person and she has to blame someone. Right now, I’m her target.”

  “What’s the quote? ‘Hell had no fury… .’ Did you spurn her?”

  “When I realized she was mentally unbalanced, I stopped dating her. She didn’t take it well.”

  “She still wants you.” Her desire was palpable. It rose off her in waves. I looked away, disconcerted. She wasn’t someone to mess with. Unstable people were extremely dangerous. They’d as likely chop off a hand or sever an Achilles tendon as spit in someone’s soup. It all depended on what mood they were in.

  “She seeks reasons to be angry. Then the anger justifies her bad behavior. I’m topping her list right now. I didn’t do anything wrong or dishonorable,” he added defensively.

  She clearly didn’t see it that way. I was unreasonably sensitive to her rage and frustration, and that troubled me. “Maybe we should go.”

  And so we did. Filbert’s was quieter, but by no means stuffy. White linen covered our table, where we ate the traditional fare of haddock and trimmings. Joe ordered a good bottle of crisp white wine, and we savored the meal and made small talk.

  When we were almost finished, I asked, “How did you and Karla meet?”

  “At a basketball game. I haven’t seen her around for months. I thought she’d left town.” Joe frowned. “I haven’t been to Boston in a while. I’ve had a lot to do at Walden.”

  “Dorothea said you’d returned to the area after an absence. Did you leave because of Karla?”

  He hesitated, looking down at his plate. “I came back to the Concord area because my mother was very ill. I’m an only child, and she needed care. There was an opening for a ranger at Walden, so I took it. Last spring, Mother died. Karla came along when I was adjusting to my mother’s death. We dated for several months before I ended it.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother, Joe. You must have been close.”

  “She never let me down. She believed in me. That’s an invaluable thing, Aine.”

  “Yes.” Granny Siobhan had always believed in me. “Was she sick for a long time?”

  “Cancer. She died by degrees.”

  My hand found his, a touch of sympathy. “That’s a hard thing. I’m sure you were a comfort and help. She was lucky to have you.”

  He withdrew his hand and looked out the window at the lights of the city. �
�On good days, I can pretend that was true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stood. “Excuse me a moment. I’ll be back.” He dodged through the tables toward the men’s room. There was some darkness in his past, and pain. Maybe one day he’d tell me.

  When he returned, he’d found his composure and a rueful smile. “So you came to Walden to finish your dissertation. And with your Ph.D., you’ll apply to teach? Around here?”

  “Getting the doctorate is the first step. I’ll worry about a job when I have the degree. I’m footloose and fancy-free. I can move anywhere there’s a good job.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Mostly dead. At least the ones I cared about. No one back in Kentucky is thinking I’ll come home.”

  “We’re on the loose, the two of us.” He offered his wine glass for a toast.

  After the clink, I asked “Why’d you break up with Karla?” It was a nosy question, but a fair one. Karla was furious. Maybe she had cause.

  “I really liked her. We had fun together.” He spun the golden wine in his glass. “One night I got a text from an old friend. A female. Karla must have been checking my cell phone. She just lost it. Went completely crazy, saying I was cheating on her. It was like she turned into someone I didn’t know. Someone frighteningly irrational and out of control. That’s when I realized she was abusing drugs. I confronted her and she said she’d stop. Later, she attacked me while I was asleep. Slugged me. Hard. That’s why you should steer clear of her.”

  I’d seen that kind of crazy behavior from people hopped up on meth or spice or any number of drug combinations. Once the addiction was set, they’d try any substance to relieve the need. “Do you really believe she’d come after me?”

  He reached for my hand and held it. His thumb moved across my knuckles, soothing, exciting my skin. “No. I don’t. But Karla isn’t a bear you want to bait. Stay away from her, and if you see her, go the other direction. Why risk a confrontation?”