The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  Their cab dropped them off at the 79th Street Marina a little after seven. “She said to look for a red flag at the top of the mast,” said Moses, as they walked down the ramp to the marina level.

  “There it is!” said Jack, pointing well down the dock to a mast a couple of dozen boats away. They headed toward the flag past large and very large sail and powerboats until they reached the Petrel, a sloop that Moses estimated to be at least forty feet long.

  “Ahoy the Petrel!” Moses shouted as they walked along the jetty to the boat’s gangway.

  “Ahoy yourself,” said Linda, stepping up on deck through the deckhouse hatch. Her white men’s’ oxford cloth dress shirt was tied at the waist above her dungarees, which hugged her hips and legs. The cuffs of the shirt’s rolled-up sleeves contrasted nicely with her tanned forearms. “Come aboard.” She extended her hand to Jack, who had stepped onto the gangway ahead of Moses. “Hi, Jack.”

  “Hi,” said Jack. If she weren’t so sexy, he thought, she’d be kinda plain. He took the warm brown hand, hanging on to his composure by a thread. “Nice boat.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “Glad you like it. Hi, Mose.”

  “Hi yourself. This isn’t a boat, it’s a yacht. How long is it?”

  “Forty-four feet.”

  “And you’re checked out to skipper it. That’s terrific.”

  “It didn’t happen overnight,” she said, motioning them to seats on the upholstered benches that ran along the sides of the boat’s cockpit. “Took me almost a year. My friend, the guy I rent from, has taught me a lot, and I’ve taken four Coast Guard courses, including celestial navigation. How about a drink? Coke OK for you, Jack? How about you, Mose? I’ve already got a Scotch working.”

  “Scotch is fine. So do you take it out often?”

  “Whenever I can get a crew together, and I crew for the owner when he has guests on board, every couple of months. Be right back.” She went below, returning almost immediately with their drinks. “So. How would you guys feel about a little sail tomorrow? You look like crew material to me.”

  “Sounds great!” said Jack. “OK, Mose?”

  “I’d like it as much as you would, Champ, but I think we need an OK from your Dad on this one. Nothing against Linda’s expertise, but my charter’s just to keep an eye on you ’til your Dad gets back.”

  “Aw, Mose!” Jack said, shaking his head. “Dad wouldn’t care. I’ve never been out on a sailboat before, and I may not have another chance to do it for who knows how long? Couldn’t you call him?”

  “Yeah, I guess I could, if we can catch him at the hotel. That’s the only number that he left.”

  “Want to try him now?” asked Linda. “I’ll bring the phone up. Who else needs a drink?”

  “We can at least try him person-to-person. He’s at the Statler. My drink’s OK.”

  “I’m fine,” said Jack.

  Linda brought a telephone up, plugging its cord into a socket on the deckhouse bulkhead. She sat down next to Jack, taking a long pull from her fresh drink, while Moses got the long distance operator on the line and placed the call. After a minute or so, he spoke. “Larry; it’s Mose. Just fine. How’s the hearin’ goin’? You haven’t? And no idea when or if they will, huh? Nothing to do but ride it out, I guess. Yes, Marella’s made us very comfortable. Thanks. Larry, I called to ask you if you’d mind if I took Jack on a little boat ride around Manhattan. No, not a Circle Line; it’s a sailboat, forty-footer that’s skippered by a good friend of mine. First-class craft. Wonderful. I’m glad you’re OK with it. Yes, he’s very excited. He’s right here; let me hand him the phone.” He waved Jack over and gave him the handset.

  “We’re all set, huh?” asked Linda.

  “Yep,” said Moses. “He’ll be off the phone in a minute, and we can celebrate over dinner. Guess I’m ready for another drink.”

  “What a coincidence. So am I,” she said.

  “You’re really ripping through the Scotch; this must’ve been some week for you.”

  “It has been. I like what I do, but if the photographer or art director you’re working with’s an asshole, the days can get real long.”

  “Your mother told me you’re a photo stylist. What exactly is that?”

  “I work with photographers who’re shooting layouts for advertising. I make sure that the models’ clothes fit perfectly and look great. It gets tricky sometimes, and it definitely ain’t that glamorous.”

  “Sounds like a pressure cooker to me. Don’t count too much on Scotch as your relief valve; it won’t work for all that long.”

  “Don’t worry about me; this is a celebration, that’s all. Besides, we’re sailing tomorrow.”

  True to her word, Moses was happy to see, Linda had had nothing to drink while they were under way. They had sailed down the Hudson past the Statue of Liberty, coming about to head up the East River, passing Welfare and Ward’s islands to starboard, striking sail and using the boat’s engine to take them around Ward’s Island and back south through Hell Gate. Once through, they’d come back to the marina under sail. She was indeed a first-rate skipper. Jack was an apt student, following Linda’s instructions and having a great deal of fun learning some basic seamanship. They were back at the dock by five-thirty, everything secure and, in Linda’s words, ready to “splice the main brace,” the nautical version of cocktail hour. “This has been a great day, Linda.” said Moses. “I always knew that you’d grow up to be a remarkable adult, and it’s a pleasure to see how right I was.”

  “Aw shucks, Uncle Mose,” she said, “Twern’t nothin.” They both laughed, enjoying their unexpected reunion.

  “Guess we’d better be getting out of your hair and give you a chance to get ready for Monday,” Moses said.

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” she said. “I don’t have anything booked for tomorrow. But you have those Feingold meetings to go to all day, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Starting with an eight o’clock breakfast.”

  “Hey. If you don’t have anything to do tomorrow, Jack, would you like to come back and help me do a little touch-up painting? I’ll spring for lunch, and Mose could pick you up when he’s done.”

  “That’d be great! OK with you, Mose?”

  “Don’t see why not. Matter of fact, Linda, he’s an old painter from way back. You’re getting experienced help.”

  “Then I’ll really have to make it worth your while,” she said, smiling.

  “Don’t suppose your Dad mentioned anything to you about what he expected to be asked at the hearing,” Moses said to Jack as their cab progressed jerkily down Ninth Avenue the next morning.

  “Not much. He just said that the lawyer told him that they were checkin’ into some things that happened where he was workin’ back durin’ the war.”

  “Hm. Where was that, anyway?”

  “Out in New Mexico somewhere. Los Alamos. Mom told me that we were out there with him, but I was so young that I don’t remember much about it.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he gets back. Guess he’ll know more about when that’ll be in a day or two.” The cab lurched right on 79th Street, headed toward the marina. “Hope you’ll have a great time today. Watch the sunburn; we got pretty red yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I’ll keep my shirt on. I’ll have a great time, I’m sure; Linda’s really cool, and I can learn a lot about this boat stuff from her. So you first knew her in Baltimore?”

  “Yeah. She’s the daughter of a woman I met there. A librarian. I could tell even then that Linda wouldn’t be satisfied with staying there.”

  The cab pulled into the marina parking lot, and Jack opened the door as it pulled to a stop. “See you this afternoon,” he said.

  “Right,” said Mose. “About six.”

  He retraced yesterday’s path to the Petrel, scattering some pigeons that we gathered around an open garbage can. Not seeing Linda, he went on board, calling her name as he hit the deck.

  Her answer came f
rom the after cabin. “Jack?”

  “Hi.”

  “I’m back here. Come on in.”

  The after cabin was the most spacious of the boat’s three bunking areas. It housed a double bed, a dresser with a large mirror, and a built-in couch with gooseneck-mounted reading lamp. Linda was sitting up in the bed, a sheet covering her legs. She wore a long-sleeved red flannel nightshirt that failed to hide her breasts’ contours, the nipples thrusting out to Jack as he stood at the foot of the bed. His throat tightened a little, making his second “Hi” an octave higher than the first.

  “Hi.” She responded. “I’m a little slow getting started this morning. You look nice today; that looks too good for a painting shirt.”

  “Oh, it’s not that good.” His voice stayed at the higher pitch.

  “Come let me see,” she said, extending her left hand. He moved to his right around the foot of the bed, within her reach. She took the shirt’s fabric between her thumb and forefinger at a point just above his waist, holding it tightly. “It’s way too nice. I can find something around here for you to wear. Sit down,” she said, pulling him by the shirt, “and I’ll pull it over your head.”

  “It’s really OK,” he said as he sat, facing her at an angle.

  She put one hand on either side of his waist and pulled the shirt free of his pants. “Here we go,” she said as she pulled the shirt up and over his head. He put his arms up as she pulled. As the shirt cleared his face, she stopped pulling, leaving his arms pinned above his head in the fabric. “Boo,” she said as their eyes locked. She pulled him to her and kissed him, jetting her tongue deep into his mouth and holding him tightly against her. Jack moaned as her tongue went into his mouth, relaxing and giving her full control of the exchange. Half a minute later, she finished pulling the shirt over his head. “Your turn,” she said, pulling her nightshirt free of her butt and putting her arms up. Jack took the cue, pulling the shirt up and pinning her in the same position as she’d put him. “Oho,” she laughed, as he kissed her. She quickly lay back on the bed, her arms still tangled in red flannel. Jack dropped down and buried his face between her breasts, then sucked on first one nipple, then the other. Her areoles were fully two inches across, and Jack took each of them in turn completely into his mouth, sucking them insistently. Struggling free of the nightshirt, she put her arms around him, one hand cradling his head. “Enjoy, baby; we can paint any time,” she whispered into his ear. When his fervor slacked somewhat, she said, “Let’s get your pants off, sweetie.”

  Ohmigod, he thought. Wait ’til Terrell hears about this.

  He had helped her rig the cockpit awning for shade from the noonday sun. They sat on one of the cockpit benches, holding hands, watching the birds flying over the river traffic and doing their best to act as though nothing unusual had happened. “Will your Dad be home soon?” Linda asked, swirling the ice cubes in her drink.

  “Yeah, I think so. “He’ll call me tonight; maybe he’ll know for sure by then.”

  “So he’ll be here for most of your visit.”

  “Yeah. Hope so, anyway.”

  “When do you go back home?”

  “To Bisque, you mean? Sometime next month.”

  “That long. Really gives you and him time to catch up with each others’ lives.”

  “Yeah. This year’s going to be different, though. He’s teachin’ a class this term; he’s usually off when I come up in the summer.”

  “Jack.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “No, really. If you’re upset I need to know. I didn’t mean to shock you or make you feel uncomfortable…”

  “Linda.”

  “What?”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Did I like it?”

  “Did you like what we did?”

  “Well, I… yes. Yes Jack, I did. But I’m-”

  “I liked it, too. A lot. So don’t worry. It’s just that I never did it before.”

  “I know, Jack. I should’ve known. I guess I did know. And I shouldn’tve let it happen.”

  “No. We both wanted it to happen.”

  “Well, it happened. And I’m sorry that it did and I’m glad that it did. You’re a beautiful young man. What do you want to do about Mose?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want to tell him?”

  “What? That we made love?”

  “Yes. Would you feel better if we did?”

  “I’d feel better if we just kept it between us. He’s screwin’ my mother, you know.”

  “He’s good at that,” said Linda. “Screwed mine, too.”

  “How about you?” asked Jack.

  “Not yet; you beat him.”

  “And I’m not about to stop.”

  “Oh, Jack. No.”

  “You mean you don’t want to?”

  “I mean that we shouldn’t.”

  “Why? You wanted it, waitin’ there in the bed for me. And as soon as I knew you did, so did I. It was beautiful. And now that the surprise’s out of the way, I want us to do it more. When I can really put my mind on what’s happening, and you can show me what you like.”

  She laughed, in spite of herself. “As long as you feel that way, I guess I can forget about having shocked you. How about lunch? Then we can paint something so Mose won’t be suspicious.”

  “Could we go back to bed for awhile? It’s not even eleven o’clock.”

  “Get you another piecea chicken, Honey,” said Marella, holding the platter at Jack’s elbow.

  “No thanks. I’m really full, except for the room I saved for lemon pie.”

  “You useta eat more, when you wudn’t nearly this big,” she said, shaking her head as she walked into the kitchen.

  Larry Mason, just returned that day, sat at the far end of the long dining table, looking very comfortable in the role of host. He was tall and slim, with thinning dark blond hair combed over a substantial bald spot that extended his forehead by a couple of inches. “How about you, Mose?” he asked. “Anything else before Marella’s famous lemon icebox pie?”

  “No thanks, Larry. Marella’s a great cook, but pie’s going to do it for me, and then some. Bet you’re glad to get back to home cookin’.”

  “Yes, I am. To be back here and away from the Congressional hot seat. I hope I never have that dubious pleasure again.”

  “What was it all about anyway, Dad?” asked Jack.

  “A former student of mine, Son. He went to work for the Voice of America when he graduated, and this committee- the Senate Permanent Investigations Subcommittee- decided to investigate his loyalty when they found out that he’d been a member of the Young Marxists League here at Columbia. Silly damn thing. I blame Dean McNeil; he volunteered the faculty’s cooperation in these investigations.”

  “From what I hear,” said Moses, “that committee’d just subpoena you if you weren’t cooperating. “It’s McCarthy’s committee, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What’s your impression of him, having seen him close-up?”

  “A gorilla. You’ve no doubt seen his picture. It seemed to me that he was half asleep a good part of the time. Asked me no questions whatever.”

  “So they were investigating this kid’s ‘loyalty.’ Presumably to his country?”

  “They way they put it to me was ‘Do you have any reason to question his loyalty, and if so why?’ My response was that I didn’t, and that’s when they opened up the subject of the Young Marxist League. When I wasn’t able to shed any light on that, they implied I was covering up for this boy, whom I hardly knew. He wasn’t even a physics major.”

  “He wasn’t? Then why call you at all?”

  “That’s easy. Since the Rosenbergs and Klaus Fuchs were caught passing information about the construction of the atomic bomb to the Soviet Union, anyone who was at Los Alamos during the war is a potential target for these people. Particularly those of us who were, and a
re, close to Dr. Oppenheimer.”

  “These people are after Oppenheimer? Hell, he’s a national hero. He’s the father of the bomb.”

  “Not in the minds of lots of people who’re behind a bigger bomb program. There’s definitely a movement afoot to advance the views of Dr. Teller, at the expense of Dr. Oppenheimer’s reputation. That effort, I think, is being extended to his supporters. Many of us think that we’ve done enough bomb development already.”

  Jack’s eyes widened as he listened to his father. “Dad. You helped build the atom bomb? You never told me.”

  Larry looked solemnly at Jack. “No, son, I haven’t; not until now. I took an oath not to tell anything that I knew about the making of the bomb- they called it the Manhattan Project. The only reason that I feel OK about discussing it at all, even now, is that so much came out in the news about the capture of the atom spies. I still have to be careful about what I say.”

  “But… you’re a hero. Pap says that the bomb saved thousands of lives.”

  “I can understand that you’d feel that way, but I don’t feel that heroic, son. Far from it, unfortunately.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s much reason that you should, without knowing a great deal more about it. We’ll talk more about it while you’re here, if you like.”

  “Yes sir. I would.”

  “Well, Mose,” Larry said, “So you’re taking off tomorrow. I hope that keeping track of Jack didn’t keep you from attending to your business.”

  “No, Larry. Not at all. I hadn’t done one of these brewer meetings before; turns out they’re one percent business and ninety-nine percent monkey business. They could’ve just put the business part of it in the mail. So I didn’t feel at all bad playing hooky. I guess Jack told you I carted him down to Gramercy Park to see where I grew up.”

  “Yes, he mentioned it. Are your parents still living?”

  “No. They died back before the war.”

  “Well, it can be sort of a mixed experience to go back where one grew up, particularly after a long absence. I hope it was enjoyable for you; you enjoyed it, didn’t you, Jack?”