The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  By the same token, Ben didn’t ask too many questions of James, which helped to put James at ease. Ben was clearly curious about his new friend, and whenever James offered up stories from his past, Ben stopped what he was doing and listened attentively. But whenever James pulled up short on a subject, or changed it altogether, as he often did, Ben seemed more than willing to accept James’s moments of secrecy. Prudence, he’d long ago decided, was a respectable quality.

  It was remarkable that two men who were so reluctant to discuss so much of their lives could find anything at all to talk about, but they did. Their conversations, mostly in the garage, were often relaxed and comfortable due in no small part to their willingness to allow the other his secrets. Ironically, while their tendency to conceal facts about their pasts had often spawned curiosity in others, their respect for one other’s privacy led instead to a mutual trust almost from the beginning.

  During those early weeks, Ben and James developed a quiet respect for one another. Ben seemed to appreciate James’s patient attention to detail as he worked, and he could tell by the care James took in finessing every curve and every line of the huge hull that they shared a common love of this great boat. Despite his age, Ben didn’t hesitate to pick up a sanding block, and work at James’s side. For James’s part he appreciated the company, and he was often reminded of those sunny afternoons from his youth when he and his father stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they slowly brought the Chris Craft back to life. It was one of the reasons he’d decided to take on the project, hoping to recapture that connection he’d had with his father.

  James worked on Ben’s boat every weekend in September, carefully disassembling the boat until he was left with nothing but the large wooden hull, as if he had husked it and only the giant hollow shell remained. Everything else— hardware, upholstery, ceiling planks, wiring and hoses— were all labeled and removed and carefully stored on shelves and in cubbies he’d built along the back of the garage. Peter helped him to remove the engine and drive train as well as the fuel tank with the help of a winch he provided. Peter also provided some additional muscle and an abundance of profanity which, Ben remarked, seemed to be the one thing that had been missing in their project up to that point.

  When it came time to flip the hull— it was necessary to invert the hull in order to repair it— James and Ben agreed they would benefit from some seasoned help, and Ben hired three men who worked at a local boatyard to guide them through the process. They helped James to fashion an elaborate rigging system that fastened to the ceiling joists and attached to the boat with a series of straps and chains. Once the hull was inverted, it was placed on support blocking to prevent further sagging during the long months of renovation that followed.

  The following week, when it returned to just the two of them— James and Ben— they settled into a quiet routine of scraping and cleaning the hull to determine what lay beneath. James had already taken measurements to determine the extent to which the hull had twisted and sagged over the years. Now he was meticulously removing— and numbering; always numbering— each plank by locating every screw and removing them, one by one.

  “Have you ever thought of going into business doing this?” Ben asked him one day. He was peering over the hull through a haze of sawdust at James, who stood on the opposite side with a chisel in one hand and a sanding block in the other, working away at the years of debris that encrusted the hull, trying to locate each screw head.

  James’s hands never stopped moving, and his eyes remained focused on his task. “Scraping barnacles?” he joked.

  “Restoring old boats,” Ben said. “I’ll bet you could make some good money doing this.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” James said. He turned to Ben and smiled. “Besides, rumor has it that you’ve got all the money on this island, Ben.”

  Ben grinned slyly. “Not yet,” he said.

  Among the many reasons Ben admired James was that James seemed to be neither intimidated nor overly impressed by Ben’s wealth. But he was surprised that James, who he considered a smart man, either didn’t recognize the opportunity that was being presented to him or was simply not interested in seizing it. Either way, he felt obligated to rescue James from his short-sightedness.

  “It’s just that you seem to enjoy doing this,” Ben said to him.

  “Not this part of it,” James said as he continued to work amid a cloud of fine dust. “But most of it.”

  “So what’s wrong with making a living— a good living, mind you— doing something you like to do?”

  “I like what I do,” James said. He stopped for a moment, letting his arms hang at his sides to rest. “Besides, I’m not convinced that I could make any living doing this when there’s probably a dozen other places right here on Mount Desert that are already doing it.”

  “That’s my point,” Ben said. “There’s places that do it. People don’t want to deal with places anymore. People want to deal with people.”

  “They want to deal with experienced people,” James corrected. “I’ve only ever worked on my boat. These other guys are craftsmen that have been doing it for years.”

  “What if I told you I could get you two more boats right now?”

  “I’d tell you I haven’t even finished yours, Ben,” James said. “I can’t even think about doing two more.”

  “Why not?” Ben asked him. “You could work here. I’ll set you up.”

  “It’s not that simple,” James said.

  Ben placed the palms of his hands upon the hull and leaned forward, as if he was addressing James from a pulpit, and he frowned at James. “Do you know why most people never get rich?” Ben asked him.

  James said nothing, certain the great Ben Jordan had a thoughtfully-considered theory on the subject.

  “Because they choose not to,” Ben said.

  “Is that so?” James said skeptically.

  “That’s right,” Ben insisted. “At some point, everybody has a chance to make a killing doing something. Most of them either never recognize the opportunity when it presents itself, or they just don’t have the courage to seize it when it does.”

  Ben thought back to his encounter with the ice man on that hot July day in Portland just after the war. He considered how different his life might have been if the idea that led him to Gus Deluca had never occurred to him, or if he’d lacked the courage to see it through; if, instead, he’d taken a job lugging ice.

  “If they don’t take the chance,” Ben continued, “that’s their choice, but they have nobody to blame but themselves when their lives don’t change.”

  James smiled. “No offense, Ben, but why is it that rich folks always make it sound so easy?”

  Ben frowned at him again, but it was wasted since James’s hands were working again and the cloud of dust that had begun to settle was swirling around him, obscuring Ben’s face. “Well, who else are you going to listen to?”

  He had a point, James knew. “Anyway,” James offered. “It’s not just about money, Ben,” James said.

  “Of course it’s not.” He looked at James as if he was disappointed in him. “It’s about being happy, and you seem pretty damned happy when you’re crawling around in this dusty old garage working on this old boat. Or am I wrong?”

  James considered it, and he rubbed his fingers across the rough surface before him, mindlessly poking at a screw head he’d revealed. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted.

  “Then think about it,” Ben said.

  During the week following their conversation, James gave little thought to Ben’s proposition, not because the offer itself was unappealing, but simply because his days spent working alongside Peter Langston were so gratifying. He especially enjoyed those long and exhausting summer days spent toiling in the hot sun, something Ben Jordan would have understood since he’d once felt the same about those hot summer afternoons he spent working at his Uncle Billy’s side. Peter and James often worked longer da
ys during July and August, taking full advantage of the extra hours of daylight. James never complained. Soon enough, those warm afternoons would yield to crisp autumn days, and they would be hurrying to finish their exterior projects before winter rudely imposed itself upon them, forcing them indoors.

  The arrival of winter along the Maine coast wasn’t the gradual process that it was elsewhere. For many, it remained a far-off notion until that one morning when they stepped outside and peered through their swirling breaths at the frost-covered landscape. As aware as they were of the inevitable coming of winter, the gradual shortening of days lulled many into complacency so that its inevitable arrival— that first snowfall or bitterly cold morning— caught them, if not by surprise, at least less than fully prepared.

  This was never the case with Peter Langston, who spent much of his time during the warmer months scheduling out a string of projects to get them through the long cold Maine winter. As a result, James always knew that they would not only be busy year round, but that Peter would have them working indoors around the time of that first frost. Other contractors without his foresight would find themselves either working outdoors in the biting cold of winter or, even worse, without any work at all. So James considered himself fortunate to work for someone with Peter Langston’s foresight.

  Although James had worked alongside Peter for barely a year, it often seemed like much longer. So much had happened during that year. More importantly, the bond that had formed between them didn’t feel like a new friendship. James felt a loyalty to Peter that wasn’t easy to come by, and he felt certain that Peter felt the same way. So despite Ben Jordan’s persuasive proposal, James couldn’t imagine waking up in the morning and working anywhere but at Peter Langston’s side.

  During that particular week, he found himself working with Peter on the roof of a three-story Victorian home on Cottage Street— the ‘young man’s work’ that Peter claimed to have put behind him was sometimes unavoidable. James disliked those days, trying not to allow his mind to stray too far from the work at hand, or from the long drop to the sidewalk that awaited him if he lost his footing. Ever since he was a child, he had no great affection for heights. His wasn’t a crippling fear, but rather a general uneasiness, unfortunate given the abundance of three- and four-story homes on Mount Desert Island. It was the only aspect of his life that made him long for winter when he knew they would be safe and warm inside and not clinging to ladders or walking on rooftops worrying about the consequences of a slight misplaced step.

  “It’s not so much the heights that bother me as it is the idea of falling from them,” James once confessed to Peter.

  “That sounds healthy,” Peter assured. “Want some advice?”

  James nodded. “Sure.”

  “When you’re up on the roof,” Peter offered, smiling, “try not to fall off.”

  Peter had no such fear of heights, walking about on the steep pitch of the roof with ease as he’d been doing since he was a young boy working at his father’s side. For a big man, he moved fluidly, with the composure and balance of an acrobat, and an almost arrogant swagger, which James sometimes considered might be exaggerated for his benefit.

  At noon, they climbed down to eat lunch on the tailgate of Peter’s pickup. James tried to stretch his cramping legs, and then he sat down beside Peter, grateful to be anywhere other than on the roof.

  “How’s the boat coming?” Peter asked him through bites of a roast beef sandwich.

  “Slow,” James said. “I know Ben wants to get it in the water next summer, but it’s really too soon to tell what we’re dealing with.”

  “That’s a hell of a contact you made there,” Peter said.

  “Ben?”

  Peter nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. “There’s a lot of money floating around on this island,” he said. “But nobody’s got more of it than Ben Jordan.”

  “I kind of sensed that,” James said.

  He wondered what Peter knew about the mysterious Ben Jordan. James only knew of him what Ben himself had told him, and he was eager to learn more. When he inquired about what Peter knew of his new friend, Peter shrugged, an awkward gesture for such a large man.

  “I don’t know any more than most people,” Peter confessed. “He’s not an easy person to get to know. But I guess the rich ones have to be careful. I’m sure a lot of people want to get close to him because of his money.”

  Peter took another bite of his sandwich and peered up into the bright sky. “Just be careful,” he offered as he chewed.

  James appeared surprised by the remark, but Peter was oblivious as he allowed the warmth of the sun to wash over his round face. For a moment, following the line of Peter’s gaze, James wondered if Peter was referring to the rooftop that awaited them.

  “Be careful of what?” James finally asked. There was nothing about Ben Jordan that suggested he was a man of whom he needed to be wary.

  James didn’t realize that Peter’s remark was a reference to his grandfather, Earl Langston, and his association with the Philadelphia Deacons, a relationship which led to the long, slow erosion of his previously industrious habits, and ultimately left him penniless and dependent upon his own son— Peter’s father— for food and shelter. What Peter was telling him was to be wary, not of Ben himself, but of overly generous benefactors. It was advice his father had bestowed upon him so many times as a boy that he felt obliged to pass it along to his friend.

  “You don’t want to get in too deep with the rich ones,” Peter finally said. “You don’t want to get to where you owe them too much.”

  He knew at that moment what Peter’s response would have been should he learn of Ben’s proposition, and for that reason, he decided to keep it to himself.

  They both returned to their sandwiches. The moment James finished his lunch, as if Peter had been waiting for him, Peter slapped him on the knee.

  “Well, let’s get back up there,” Peter said. The back of the pickup sprung upward as Peter hopped off the tailgate. “Roof’s not gonna finish itself.”

  James followed him to the ladder. Peering up at the steep pitch of the roof three stories above him, he suddenly found the idea of working on boats for a living a very appealing notion.

  21

  Means To An End

  The last Saturday in October was a mild autumn day on Mount Desert Island. James spent the morning at the garage working on Ben Jordan’s boat, pausing from time to time to give his attention to Max, who spent most of the morning lying in the open bay door, following a patch of sunshine which eventually led him outside into the parking area. Shortly after noon, James closed up the garage and urged Max into the Jeep and drove home for lunch.

  When he pulled off Clark Point Road and onto the gravel drive in front of Ruth Kennedy’s house, he was surprised to see Christina sitting quietly upon the landing of the stairs leading up to his apartment. Jean hadn’t mentioned that Christina would be coming home for the weekend.

  She was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve blouse, and her hair was pulled back into a pony-tail. James had barely stopped the Jeep when Max leaped out and bounded up the stairs to greet her.

  “Hello, gorgeous!” Christina cried. She hugged the dog around his thick neck and toppled over laughing as Max enthusiastically kissed her face and neck.

  At the foot of the stairs, James watched smiling until Christina finally peered down at him from over Max’s thick fur. “As you can see, he’s completely forgotten you,” he joked.

  Christina smiled, remembering their parting words a month earlier. “How about you?”

  James considered it for a moment. “I forgot you, too,” he said.

  Her lovely face brightened at the lie.

  Once inside the apartment, and out of view of Ruth Kennedy and the neighbors, they nearly embraced, but James, still covered in a layer of sweat, sawdust and grease from his morning in the garage, stepped back and apologized for his appearance.


  “You are kind of a mess,” Christina acknowledged, wrinkling her nose.

  James hurried into the bathroom for a quick shower. Two months earlier, Christina might have followed him in, but when he peered over his shoulder from the bathroom doorway, he saw her settling with Max on the braided rug near the sofa. Neither of them gave James’s departure from the room much attention.

  When he returned, Christina was sitting on the sofa, Max leaning against her legs as she absent-mindedly rubbed his head. James paused for a moment in the doorway, observing her. She was as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more lovely than he remembered, if that was even possible, but her expression seemed distant, and her eyes were cast downward and unfocused. She became aware of James’s return only when he sat down beside her.

  “Better?” he asked.

  Christina looked him over quickly. His hair was still damp, but his skin and his clothes were free of the grime that had covered him minutes earlier. “Much.”

  She managed a thin smile and they embraced like two former lovers after a long absence; loving but tentative, simultaneously both close and distant. James kissed her on the cheek as they separated.

  She asked him how he’d spent his time since she’d left for college, but her attention seemed to wander as he told her about his trip to Lake Winnipesaukee with Kate to scatter his father’s ashes, and of the work he’d been doing on Ben Jordan’s boat.

  She was only slightly less distracted when she spoke of her time back at the University. She mentioned her classes and her roommate, but little else.

  James was disappointed by the lack of details, but even more by the absence of her usual enthusiasm. He knew something was troubling her. “Is that it?” he asked.