Page 72 of The Love You Fight For
He pulls down two fishing rods from some hooks in the shed, then picks up a tackle box before setting it all in the tiny boat.
“I don’t fish,” I repeat, but he ignores me.
He steps into the boat, never losing his balance despite the way the whole thing wobbles back and forth, and then he holds out a hand.
“Give the blanket first, and then I’ll help you in.”
“What do we need a blanket for?” I ask as I hand it to him. “It’s warm out.”
He drops the blanket on one of the two little seats, then puts his hand out for mine.
“It’s warm, but the breeze once we’re on the water can get chilly. Give me your hand. I’ll help you in.”
I bite back the instinct to tell him that I don’t need his help, and instead, I let him take my hand as I step off the dock and into the metal bucket. I mean boat.
“Get comfortable,” he tells me, so I lower myself onto the tiny seat across from him and fold my hands in my lap while he starts up the engine with a loud rumble. “Ready?”
I nod, and he pushes us away from the dock and steers us out into the lake.
We don’t go out far. We stick close to the shoreline, and Chris points out different houses. He was right. Some of these places are massive, and it surprises me that my father never wanted to buy a house here just for the status of it. From the looks of it, some of these places are multimillion-dollar homes. Then again, when I really consider it, I’m glad he hasn’t. My father would ruin the peace. He’d suck the joy out of it.
Chris steers us into another inlet similar to the one near his cabin, but this one is nothing but trees and rocks and a sharp cliff. When he turns off the engine, I sit up straighter and look around.
“This is where we’ll fish.” He gets to work fixing up one of the fishing rods.
Mercifully, he doesn’t urge me to grab the other one. And then my shoulders droop in disappointment.
“I forgot to grab a book.”
He smiles, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the fishing line he’s messing with.
“Check the tackle box,” he says.
I lean forward and turn the tackle box so I can see inside, and there, on top of extra fishing line and some little red-and-white bobbers, is his copy ofWalden.
I don’t speak. I just open the text and thumb through the pages, noting the flashes of yellow highlighter and pen and pencil margin notes. There are so many annotations. Plus, the spine of the paperback is broken and multiple pages look like they at one time were dogeared.
This is an example of a well-loved book, and it makes me eager to read it. To soak up a bit of whatever magic Chris and his grandfather have found within the pages. I spread the blanket over my legs because Chris was right and the breeze is a bit chilly, and then I sink back into the tiny seat, stretch my legs along the floor of the boat, and start the first essay.
It’s a struggle.
While I’m no stranger to reading books with nineteenth-century rhetoric, I have difficulty with Thoreau’s. The sentences are long and drawn out. The passages feel clunky. And as hard as I try not to, I can’t help but read the tone of the text as if being spoken down to by a patronizing man.
This is why I prefer to read books by woman authors.
Am I prejudiced? Yes, I am. Do I care? No, I do not.
The only parts I find interesting are the highlights and margin notes that Chris and his grandfather made, but I don’t give up. I’m plodding my way through the second essay when Chris laughs, and his foot bumps against my thigh. I look up to find him grinning at me from the other tiny boat seat.
“What?” I ask, and he laughs again.
“You look like you hate it,” he says, and immediately I blush.
I feel bad. He loves this book. His grandfather loved this book. And I might be a bitch, but I’m not going to insult something he loves.
“No,” I say quickly. “No, I don’t hate it.”
He shakes his head. He obviously doesn’t believe me, but that lopsided, good-natured smile stays on his face.
