The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  As they got nearer to the water, the rocks were larger and smoother, the pounding surf robbing them of their angles and their edges over time. The low tide revealed the smoothest rocks, hidden exactly as often as they were exposed, the wet kelp and seaweed making them slippery, too treacherous to tread upon.

  Ben and James stood side-by-side on a large flat stone and looked out at the harbor, neither of them speaking for some time. The two-masted schooner, which was now anchored near the center of the harbor, still held Ben’s attention.

  “I’ve spent most of my life either near the sea or on it,” Ben finally said. He had that familiar softness in his voice that James had come to recognize whenever Ben began to reminisce about his long ago past, as if he were whispering in the presence of ghosts. It was the same tone he used whenever he spoke of Rose. “I don’t recall having any great love of it when I was younger. It’s not like it was especially kind to me. I only vaguely remember it from my childhood, mostly just an awareness of it. My good years growing up were on my Uncle Billy’s farm.” He paused for a moment as if he was indulging himself in some stray memory of those summers on the farm— the sweat and the ache and the pure joy of it— or of the man himself; some lingering image that was still as vivid in his mind as if it had happened only yesterday, despite fifty years having passed. “And then I spent the next few years bobbing around on it during the war, mostly just hoping we’d stay afloat until it was over. That’s all any of us could hope for.” He appeared to be looking beyond the schooner now, toward the mouth of the harbor, out to the open sea. “I don’t know why I kept coming back to it.” He considered it for a bit. “It pulls at you.”

  Without realizing it, James was nodding slowly as he listened to Ben, the old man’s voice growing so soft at times that it occasionally blended with the sound of the waves lapping at the rocks beneath them and then retreating. He enjoyed listening to Ben when he reminisced, not just because he was fascinated by his stories, but also because he believed that Ben rarely mused to others about his past. He was honored that Ben felt he could speak of these things— especially his memories of Rose, which were so sacred to him— so he usually just remained silent so as not to break the spell Ben had fallen under.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you, James?” Ben asked after a long silence. He turned to James, who was still nodding without knowing it. “You feel it, too.”

  “I do,” James confessed. “My wife— my first wife,” he said, catching himself. “She thought I was crazy. She never understood it, and I could never explain it to her.”

  “There’s no explaining it,” Ben said. “Either you feel it or you don’t— either it has you or it doesn’t.” Ben looked down at the rocks just beneath them, at the tide pools left behind by the receding tide. “Can I share a secret with you?” he asked.

  James smiled. “Of course.”

  Ben ruminated over it for a moment, as if he were checking himself one last time before making his confession, but he wanted to speak, and he was certain he’d found in James a kindred spirit who, even if he didn’t fully understand, would withhold judgment. “For a long time, I’ve had this feeling that there’s a reason for it all, that this ocean has some bigger purpose for me.” He was looking out over the harbor again; that faraway hush to his voice had returned. “Sometimes I come down here; I stand right here, and I ask it, straight up, and I just listen to the waves, but they never answer.” He considered it for a moment. “Whatever this old ocean has in mind for me, it won’t give it up. Apparently, it’s some big secret.”

  27

  What Speaks To Us

  For what remained of that first summer with William, James and Ruth frequently moved their Sunday breakfast ritual to Ben Jordan’s home, always dining on the porch facing the harbor as they had that first morning. Even when it rained, the porch was deep enough to keep them dry, though on those occasions, William usually dozed inside, just on the other side of the screen door where they could see him. They were forced to dine inside only once during a rainy morning in late August when heavy gusts blowing in off the harbor sprayed a fine mist against the house. When Ben wasn’t entertaining, he often remained on the porch during such summer storms, calmly sipping whiskey or brandy while the rain dampened his skin and his clothes. On those occasions, he’d remain quiet and still, eyeing the harbor as if he were giving it an audience, still waiting for it to speak to him; Ben Jordan’s ongoing and one-sided discourse with the sea.

  Ben was rarely introspective in front of Ruth; that seemed to be reserved for those occasions when he found himself alone with James. With Ruth, Ben was always cheerful and charming. Were it not for the fact that James knew that Ben remained completely devoted to his late wife, he might have suspected the old man of flirting. James quietly observed the two of them, Ben and Ruth, often laughing together like they were old school chums. They swapped stories of mutual acquaintances— there were many, each having lived on the island for decades— and they reminisced about old songs or events from their youth.

  On the last Sunday in August, which was also the last weekend before Christina returned to Orono for her final semester, Ben invited James, Jean and Christina to his home for dinner. William and Ruth were to join them as well, and he even insisted on including Max in the festivities.

  While Christina had seen Ben Jordan only in passing on the streets of Bar Harbor, they had never spoken. Jean, on the other hand, had met Ben on more than one occasion; once at a social gathering— a fundraiser for some local cause that neither of them could remember— and a second time a few weeks afterward when Ben ventured into Jean’s gallery and purchased the painting of the three-masted schooner that now hung on the wall to the right of his large stone fireplace. As Ruth had been, Jean was flattered that Ben remembered, with some detail, their conversation that day, despite it having occurred eight years earlier.

  “There are some people you meet in life who are utterly forgettable,” Ben explained, still holding her hand after their initial greeting. “You, my dear, are not one of those people.”

  James was certain he’d seen his wife blush.

  Although Jean had offered to prepare the meal, Ben wouldn’t hear of putting his guests to work, choosing instead to have the dinner catered by an acquaintance who owned a restaurant in town.

  “I can make you a perfect martini and a decent omelet, but I’m otherwise completely useless in the kitchen,” Ben confessed to his guests. He’d lived most of his life as a bachelor and his lack of skill in the kitchen had led him to acquire a taste for simple things. His refrigerator contained milk, juice, beer, eggs, a few condiments, some jams and jellies, and an occasional deli meat, but little else. In his cupboards were cereal, bread, and several cans of soup. When he yearned for something more refined, he dined out at a local restaurant, often alone, or accepted a dinner invitation from one of a handful of friends on the island.

  The formal dining room in Ben’s home was rarely used, the fine mahogany table sitting neglected beneath a fine layer of dust, but for this occasion the table had been meticulously set by the caterer, who also provided the dishes, glassware and silverware. Since Ben never entertained, he had no need for such frivolous things other than what he kept for his personal use.

  Ben was energetic and very clearly enjoying his role as host. He flirted shamelessly with all three ladies, who found him charming, and after supper, when he wasn’t bouncing William on his knee, he was often stroking Max’s freshly-scrubbed coat— Max having grudgingly submitted to a bath for the occasion. To an outside observer it would have appeared that this was a gathering of three generations of a very close family.

  After supper, they made their way out onto the porch where they sat and talked in anticipation of an apple pie that Ruth had insisted on contributing to the occasion. William napped in Jean’s arms after having taken up residence in Ben’s lap for most of the evening. Ben seized the opportunity to retrieve a cigar from a hum
idor he kept just inside the door, next to the bar. He offered one to James, which James declined.

  “Let’s take a little walk,” Ben said. “I don’t want to smoke near the baby.”

  The two men descended the steps and wandered slowly toward the rose hedge as Ben lit his cigar, taking short puffs until it glowed in the diminishing light. He turned back toward the porch and took a long look at Ruth and Christina and Jean, still cradling William in her arms.

  “You’re a lucky man,” Ben said to his companion.

  James followed Ben’s gaze to the three women and his son on the porch. “I know.”

  The cigar was the same brand that Gus Deluca had smoked, and the aroma always reminded Ben of his former boss (and later his father-in-law and his business partner). Those memories always brought with them vivid images of Rose, not that she was ever far from his thoughts.

  “Take care of your family, James,” Ben said, his tone suddenly heavy for the first time that evening.

  “I will,” James assured him.

  Ben placed his hand upon James’s shoulder and looked at his friend. “It’s human nature to take your good fortune for granted. We all do it. We all think that what we have is going to last forever.” He gave James’s shoulder a squeeze to be sure he had his attention. “It doesn’t, James.”

  James was certain Ben was thinking of Rose, of their brief time together, so he remained silent as he always did when Ben’s thoughts drifted back and alighted on some long-ago memory of her.

  Ben removed his hand from James’s shoulder and turned to face the harbor again, the two men standing shoulder-to-shoulder now. Ben took a long slow drag on the cigar and intentionally blew the smoke into the breeze so that it swept back over him, conjuring more images of his old friend and the woman he’d loved.

  “Appreciate what you have, James, and be grateful every day that you have it.” He turned and looked hard at James. “There’s nothing I have that I wouldn’t trade for one more day with my Rose,” he said.

  James nodded. It was the kind of advice his father, who also had lost his wife too soon, would have bestowed upon him, and James found himself both missing his father and feeling his presence at the same time. This time it was James who reached out and draped an arm across Ben’s shoulders, and he felt Ben lean against him. Witnessing the scene from the porch, Jean smiled at the closeness of the two men.

  A stiff breeze blew in from the harbor, stirring the rose hedge, and Ben cocked his head, as if it was Rose whispering to him and he was straining to hear her voice. He so missed the sound of her voice that he often heard it in so many things— a random breeze hissing through the rose hedge, the rustling of leaves, the lapping of the waves— all of them hinting at the promise of her but always disappointing, failing him unfailingly. He became aware of James’s arm across his shoulders, and he was embarrassed by what he felt certain was just an old man’s foolishness. Who wouldn’t think an old man foolish who carried on one-sided conversations with the sea, and believed his dead wife— gone nearly forty years— whispered to him from a rose hedge?

  “Ben?” It wasn’t Rose’s voice this time, but James’s, tentatively venturing to coax him out of his fog. Ben turned to him, looking confused, and James offered a kind smile. “Whatta ya say we head back and try a little of Ruth’s apple pie?”

  Ben nodded and the two of them turned and made their way back to the porch. Approaching the steps, Ben took one final draw on his cigar, allowing the smoke to swirl around him one last time, and then tamped it out on the wooden railing before ascending the stairs to rejoin his guests.

  While his Sundays were devoted to his family, which had now expanded to include Ben just as it had already included Ruth, James spent most of his Saturdays that August in Ben’s garage working on Ben’s boat.

  Ben often joined him in the garage in the afternoons, sometimes to bring him a sandwich, but usually just to visit with him. James knew that Ben was more interested in the company and the conversation than he was in checking on James’s progress on the boat, so there were many afternoons when little work was done during Ben’s visits. They sometimes climbed aboard the boat and sat together with cold beers that James kept in the old refrigerator that had been left behind by the previous owner and miraculously still ran.

  The same could not be said for the old engine in Ben’s boat. James tinkered with it, but had admitted from the beginning that he was no mechanic. If the engine could be repaired, which was uncertain, it wasn’t likely to be by his hand.

  “Didn’t you tell me the thing ran when you bought it?” James asked Ben after the boat stubbornly refused to respond to anything he tried.

  “It ran,” Ben assured him. “Not well, even then,” he confessed. “And it’s been just sitting here for years.”

  Compounding what he decided were symptoms of basic neglect, James found evidence of mice having taken up residence in the engine compartment. They’d long since scattered since James began working on the boat, but he suspected they’d been there undisturbed since not long after Ben began storing the boat there. The damage mice can do in a single winter is considerable; Ben’s boat had remained untouched in the garage for three years.

  In early September, at James’s urging, Ben hired a mechanic named Walt Cook to take a look at the engine and give his opinion. Walt was a thin man in his fifties who proved surprisingly strong given his wiry frame and his age. He’d worked at a boat yard in Southwest Harbor for more than two decades, and was widely considered one of the best mechanics on Mount Desert Island. He came at a high price, which was of little concern to Ben Jordan, but the word around town was that if there was anyone on the island who could get that old engine running, Walt Cook was that man.

  Walt spent two full weeks working on the engine, the cursing and the clanging of his efforts declaring his progress. The old engine protested Walt’s early efforts to start it before finally responding to him, rumbling to life with a belch and a roar and then sputtering and falling silent. It required two more days of tinkering— accompanied by the usual symphony of obscenities— before he was able to get the boat idling and keep her idling. Though the rumbling and coughing of the old engine still didn't suit Walt Cook's trained ear, it was like music to Ben's, who was so giddy at the sound of it when Walt fired it up for him one afternoon that James was sure Ben was about to break into a jig.

  "So now we know it'll run," Walt Cook said to his companions. "Do we know if it floats?" He was teasing James with the question. He'd gotten a close look at James’s work, and he admired his craftsmanship. He had no question that the boat was seaworthy. The truth was, Walt was just eager to put the thing in the water.

  James still had some work remaining before they could answer Walt’s question. James spent the next few weeks putting the boat back together, saving the last of the cosmetic touches until after he was satisfied that the boat was seaworthy.

  In mid-September, once many of the tourists had left the island for the season, and before the leaf peepers arrived, they used Walt's big Ford pickup to tow the boat to the launch ramp at the end of Clark Point Road. Walt backed slowly down the ramp until the rear end of the trailer was submerged and the stern of the boat dipped into the saltwater. They worked quickly to release the straps and then using the new power winch that Walt had replaced on the trailer, they slid the boat off the trailer until it was floating elegantly upon the surface of the harbor. Walt waited while James climbed aboard the boat to make certain it wasn't taking on water before releasing the winch cable in case he needed to pull it quickly from the water, but all the seals held and James offered a sigh of relief and a proud smile.

  "Well, what are you waiting for?" Walt called to him from the ramp. "Fire her up."

  James released the winch cable and they used the bow and stern lines to guide the boat to an adjacent spot on the pier where they tied it off. He climbed back aboard and pulled the choke and turned the key, listening as the engine struggled f
or just a moment and then roared to life. A cloud of exhaust drifted up and over him, and then dissipated as he allowed the engine to idle. Ben smiled broadly as James helped him climb aboard while Walt drove his truck up the ramp and parked it in the dirt lot nearby.

  "What do you think?" Ben asked him as he proudly surveyed the boat.

  James smiled. "I think you have a hell of a boat here, Ben. Or you will once she's finished."

  When Walt Cook returned, his frown was in stark contrast to the expression of unbridled joy on Ben’s face. He stood on the pier at the stern of the boat and just listened to the uneven rumble of the engine. He asked James to give it some gas and James nudged the throttle forward. Walt listened and then gestured to give it a little more, and then a little more, cocking his head and listening intently as if it was speaking to him, and always frowning, as if whatever it was confiding in him was unpleasant. He motioned for James to ease it back and James brought it back to a low idle.

  “Still some tuning to do,” Walt said. “I’ll know more once we take her out for a bit.”

  Now it was James who frowned. “Not today,” he said.

  “Why not?” Walt asked. “She’s not taking on water and she’s running a little rough, but not stalling out. We’ll keep her close to shore, and I’ve got a friend that’ll be here any second to follow us in case anything goes wrong.”

  They cruised counter-clockwise around the bay, staying close to shore as they’d agreed. His friend followed them in a whaler in case the engine died and they needed to be towed back to shore, or worse, in the event that the boat started rapidly taking on water and they needed to be plucked quickly from it before taking an unplanned swim in the frigid Maine harbor.

  Occasionally James gave the boat a little more gas so Walt could listen again to the sound of the engine speaking to him, mentally chronicling its ailments. At the far side of the harbor, Walt took the wheel and turned due north, heading across the mouth of the harbor, directly toward the lobster pier where they’d begun. As he did, he thrust the throttle forward quickly— intentionally, too quickly— the engine paused for a moment, as if drawing a breath, before surging forward with such power that Ben and James were forced to hold on to avoid being thrown backward and over the stern into the cold harbor.