The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) by R. B. Chesterton Page A

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.