Water Lessons

by Chadwick Wall

  Always watch the drink, the man had said, and never stop prayin'. Also exiled by a hurricane, Decareaux knew all the many pitfalls that could hound such a person. This line seemed uncanny. The Cajun saw into him better than he expected.

  Jim set his Blackberry alarm for seven forty-five. This week or next, he and the men would complete the overhaul of the schooner. Soon the John Paul Jones would not only need to be seaworthy, but also in tip-top shape for the voyage up the coast—with children on board.

  Random thoughts of Freddy, Decareaux, Maureen and her parents, his own parents and brother, Liam and his Boston friends, and his new sailing team flashed faster and faster through the cinema of his mind. Perhaps it only furthered his exhaustion. In minutes, Jim was lost in sleep.

  When he woke, the room was full of shadows, only illumined by a nearby lamp. Jim rose slowly from the couch and slinked toward the bay window. All this turmoil was ruining his sleep, his peace. What had jolted him awake?

  He blinked his eyes rapidly, still lingering in the realm of dreams. That last part of his nightmare remained, there several feet from him: the coffin propped upright in the corner, Freddy emerging decomposed in the burial suit Jim had bought him, stepping forth with hesitation. Jim could not see his eyes. He glanced hard, but they were shut, sunken. Then the wraith vanished. Ah, it was the end he could expect, that all should expect. But Freddy had met it too early, too harshly, without comfort…

  Outside on the Sound he could see nothing, merely darkness. Again, he imagined his father at that very hour. It was two hours past midnight. George Scoresby had retired to bed, and when the clock struck five, Jim's mother Rachel would rise for the rosary and Mass, and his father would be off to his office to pore over his maps and logs.

  Was his father right? If Jim didn't move home soon, would he be increasingly swallowed up in a new life, and in a flash his father and mother and much of his family would be gone and he himself would be an old man, his life almost done?

  Nonsense. His father was just pulling out all the stops. Ol' George missed him just that much.

  Regardless, he must press on with his life in New England. It would be reckless to give it all up now and crawl back home. And Maureen…

  He had commenced the mission. He must, for once, complete the task.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  At twenty past eight, the door of the Melville Boat Brokerage office opened. In walked Jim, his hair still damp from his morning shower.

  "Well, look who it is!" Bill laughed like a fiend. "You look a little hung-ovah! Rise and shine, ya highness!"

  Jim stopped in the middle of the room, gripping his thermos. "Sleep problems."

  "How was the trip, man? Commodore run ya aground?"

  "Perfect weather. Kids did very well."

  "Those Harbor Islands are pretty nice. Interesting little formations, them drumlins. Formed by glaciers, ya know? Anyway, I guess we're set for the last big push."

  "We're on track to finish this week," Jim half stated, half asked.

  Bill clapped his hands once with excitement, as if on the verge of declaring some important news. "As long as Donovan don't sleep too late, little Joey DaSilva don't slip out early to meet some hot young broad, and Chief don't sneak some sauce on his lunch break, I'd say, we're lookin' good for finishin' Friday, man."

  "Excellent," Jim said. "I'm psyched."

  "You should be, Jimmy. We started crankin' on the deck this morning. I s'pose we coulda started with the hull."

  "Meh, the order is irrelevant. Long as we work hard and steady, we'll arrive at the end."

  "That's it. We'll get there, man. Let's go check her out, shall we?"

  Walking down the stairs, they found DaSilva and Chief on the deck. Chief was hammering a board in place. Their stereo played James Taylor. The earnest, crystal-clear vocals and the minimalistic yet beautiful acoustic guitar chord were unmistakable.

  "I, too, have seen fire and rain," Jim shouted to the crew.

  "Great folk singer, isn't he?" Bill nodded. "He's a local boy. I've seen him many times, both when he's played out here and in western Mass."

  Chief appeared at the rail, joined by DaSilva. They both stood, smiling down at them, Chief's hands at his hips and Joey slouching with his arms at his sides, the faintest timid smile accenting his face.

  "There he is!" Chief said. "Commodore Henretty didn't drown ya this time?"

  Laughter erupted from various areas of the shop.

  Jim attempted to keep his lips fast together but he was unable to prevent them from yielding into a smile. He glanced down at the cement floor and shook his head. "Fortunately, this time I watched for the swingin' boom."

  Donovan, in all his ruddy-cheeked, grease-stained glory, appeared at his side.

  "Sure ya didn't fall into the deep?" Chief jeered. "At least once? Twice?"

  "My eyes were wide open this time, believe me," Jim said. "So y'all already working on the deck?"

  "Of course." Donovan raised his brows. "Much progress. There ain't much left to go."

  "I'm comin' on up." Jim walked around the boat.

  Donovan and Bill followed, ascending the rolling metal stairwell. Chief stood next to DaSilva, who pointed at the gaping hole in the deck, perhaps ten feet by fifteen feet.

  "That's all we got left," the boy said. "Don't fall in."

  Jim nodded his head with pride. The men had made much headway. A quarter of the deckboards were brand new, nailed into place, and only needed buffing and staining.

  "You men are doing great," Jim said. "All I missed was part of Friday and all of Saturday, but what's our status on the hull?"

  "We got a good, I'd say, three, maybe four days left," Bill said. "This deck's maybe two days, with the buffing and the staining included."

  "Well…" Jim muttered, narrowing his eyes and holding a fist to his mouth in thought. "Change of plans! Chief and DaSilva, y'all stick to the deck. The next couple days, it'll be Bill, Donovan, and I on the hull. If y'all need another hand on this, gimme a holler. I can help stain or buff. We may finish around the same time."

  "We're gonna need some more stain," DaSilva said.

  "Six more buckets," Bill said. "We gotta stain the whole deck. And we need a few more buckets of paint for the hull. After the woodwork's done down there."

  "Write me up a list," Jim said. "Add what they need, brand, color or whatever included. I'll drive into town at lunch, stop at the hardware store again."

  "You may be from Louisiana, but you're still a good guy," Bill said.

  Jim shot him a wry grin. "All right, let's attack it!" Jim led Bill and Donovan down the rolling stairwell.

  For the next few hours, Jim helped Donovan and Bill nail the hull boards in place, while Chief and DaSilva worked on the deck. The men passed the list among them. Soon there were eight line items.

  At eleven-thirty, the outside door keycode beeped. The door swung ajar. Walter strode inside wearing his khaki shorts and white canvas boat shoes as he fixed his Ray-Ban sunglasses in the neck of his white polo shirt.

  "Lookin' very Cape Cod-ish, Commodore Walt," Jim said.

  "Gotta look the part, my boy," Walter said. "The clothes make the man, as Shakespeare had it. Well, greetings, gentlemen! How goes it with the old leaky dame, ya damned salty dogs?"

  "Actually, we're on target to finish Friday, as you predicted," Jim said.

  "I tell ya, men, this fine beaut looks just marvelous," the Commodore said. "It should, after all I spent on her! When my wife caught wind of this purchase, she nearly filleted me alive!"

  "So…" Bill emerged from behind the boat. He stood with his hands on his hips, smiling with his trademark mischief. "Seriously, Cap'n. How did ya get back in her good graces this time, if you may divulge?"

  "Really wanna know? I made another large donation to the Church. And I booked her and her friends another two-week stay in Tuscany."

  A few laughed, but Jim kept mum. Walter's words made him queasy.

  "But there's a
little method to my madness, gents." Walter clapped once, loudly, his eyes flashing. "I'm giving Kathleen her wish, sendin' her across the pond those same weeks we sail this beauty down to New York Harbor."

  A fierce cheer tore loose from Jim and all of his men. The cry of jubilation shot up into the steel rafters as they waved their hands in the air. The Commodore had taken many of the Melville men on two-day, three-day jaunts, but never on a trip of such duration. And never to such an exciting destination as New York City.

  "Great idea, sir!" Donovan clapped his hands with gusto.

  This is great, Mr. Henretty!" Bill shouted. "You know who ya real friends are!"

  "Nice!" Jim said. "This sounds like an excellent trip. Everybody'll be happy: you, Kathleen, us!"

  "Two weeks on board this baby, all the way to the Big Apple! Stopping in ports all along the way. Grilling and drinking on deck every night. Everyone can bring a guest! What could possibly be left out, my boy? Now, lemme see this old lass!"

  "Here, Cap'n," Bill said. "I'll give you the tour."

  The men showed him the slowly shrinking cavities in the hull and deck.

  Afterwards, at the foot of the ladder, Walter Henretty nodded, his arms joined behind his back. "I cannot deny it. You men are doing just fine. Now don't let me keep ya."

  "Actually we were just breaking for lunch," Jim said. "But we'll resume in about an hour."

  Walter marched toward the door. He motioned for Jim to follow. "Why don'tcha accompany me to town, sonny boy? We'll grab a quick bite. I'm goin' on a little errand."

  "Good idea," Jim said. "I need to grab some things for the men at the hardware store. We should take my truck."

  Jim walked faster and pulled alongside the old man. They headed down the path and up the driveway to the truck. Jim turned the ignition and revved the motor three times.

  The old man raised a fist and cheered with glee. "Yes! Let's hear her rooaar!"

  "Hahaha! Come on, ol' Betty Sue!" Jim shouted. "Come on, baby!" He worked the shift and eased on the accelerator. The old Chevy rolled forward from where it was backed up against one of the closed garage doors. Jim rolled down his window with one arm. With the other, he steered the truck out onto the driveway, between the oaks, maples, and birches, toward the road.

  The old man also rolled down his window. He pulled his pipe from his shorts, along with a matchbox and small tin of tobacco. Walter quickly packed and lit the bowl. Jim looked over at Walter, who sat silently puffing away with the slightest of grins. The old man maintained his silence the entire way to Osterville's Main Street.

  After several minutes, Jim said, "So where should we stop first?"

  "Let's head to your hardware store. Then to lunch."

  "But Walter, will the boxes be safe in the truck bed? And what about your errand?"

  The old man puffed away, his eyes shrewd and narrowed with thought as they pierced the windshield. "You don't have to worry much about theft around here. And my errand will just take a second. I'll getcha back to the men in no time."

  "I trust you implicitly, Commodore."

  "Well, ya should. I've been around a long time."

  Jim pulled onto Main Street, a road laid out much like other main arteries in coastal New England towns. Without fail, there was the white clapboard Congregationalist church with its charming steeple. Boxy, brick mid-nineteenth century commercial buildings housed sandwich shops, bookstores, and boutiques. Eighteenth century clapboard houses abounded, as did parallel-parked Subarus, Saabs, Volvos, and BMWs.

  Jim parked in the small lot beside Carrington's Hardware Shoppe. They walked across the paved lot and around the brick building. Jim held the door ajar for the old man to enter.

  A forty-something man stood behind the counter. Jim had come to the man several times in the last few weeks to buy supplies. Each time, Jim had been struck by his rudeness.

  "Hello," Jim said.

  Carrington looked back at Jim with large light blue eyes, nearly devoid of any expression save the slightest trace of haughtiness and impatience. The man was very tall, with a thick brown mustache. He was dressed in a white apron over a starched and pressed light blue office shirt. The entire crown of his hairless head was like a gigantic pearl, shiny and spotless and bright. "What'll it be?" the man sighed.

  "Still not happy to see me? Still so rude after all the business I've given you?" Jim said, looking sadly at the man, shaking his head.

  "Whaddaya want, kid?" the man said.

  Walter appeared at Jim's side, and then took a step forward, his hands resting at his sides, his back ramrod straight. On his face was a look of stalwart pride mixed with fierce animosity.

  "Oh, Mister Henretty!" the man held up a hand, palm outward. "How are you, sir?"

  "Not so good, Carrington. You addressed my top manager like he's one of your teenage stockboys who didn't show for work."

  "Oh… I…" Carrington said. His eyes, all white and light blue nearly to the point of transparency, widened.

  "Everyone knows you're naturally a real horse's ass," the old man barked. "But try to keep it in check. Especially for a young man who I know always treated you with courtesy. And you knew he was one of my guys. He's been putting supplies on my account here for weeks."

  Carrington tried to mouth some awkward apology, but there was no sound.

  Jim turned with a faint smile and walked down the aisle. He selected a plastic basket, pulled his list from his jeans' back pocket, laughed quietly to himself, and walked around the store, plopping supplies into the basket.

  Walter joined him. Soon they returned to the counter. Carrington shuffled uneasily from one foot to another. Beads of sweat had broken through on the bare egg-like oval of his head.

  Jim placed his items on the counter. Carrington feverishly scanned and bagged them and banged the register keys in a kind of nervous fit. He turned to Walter, then to Jim, forcing a smile. "I scanned them so the alarm won't go off. Take these… they… they're all on the house today."

  "This man here is Jim Scoresby," Walter said. "He has bought, and will be buying, many of my boat shop's supplies from your enterprise here. As I have long done."

  Jim offered his hand. Carrington shook it spastically, and then shook hands with Walter.

  "Good gesture, Carrington," Walter said. "Give my regards to Jeannie."

  He led Jim back down the aisle and out of the store.

  As soon as he started the engine, Jim said, "So… interesting scene back there."

  "Stodgy, crusty old grinch. You shoulda told me he was being obnoxious."

  "Frankly, sir, I've grown quite used to it. I love New England for its culture. Not for its manners, generally speaking. Not everyone's a Walter Henretty, a Kathleen Henretty."

  "Ya don't need to flatter me, guy. I know we aren't the friendliest. Like I told you, our virtues usually lie in other realms."

  "I would say inventiveness, resourcefulness, respect for culture and learning, a natural, idealistic bent for social activism." Jim rolled up to Main Street, stopping just before the road. "So where to?"

  "Well put! Turn left. I know a good place to grab a snack."

  Jim waited for a break in the light downtown traffic. Then he wheeled the truck left.

  "Go forward a few minutes, son. I'll tell ya when to park."

  "Carrington," Jim said with a strain of humor in his voice. "Crotchety guy did some about-face when he saw the likes of the Commodore. Nearly swallowed his tongue."

  The old man stared out of his passenger's seat window, his smile reflected in the window. "I suppose we can attribute his transformation, or near pants-wetting, to the decades of business I've given to his store. Any generic item I can get there for the brokerage, I will. I like supporting small businesses."

  "Your fame and stature in the community don't hurt, either."

  "Maybe the fact that his brother served under my command didn't hurt either. Ronald Carrington. Manned an anti-aircraft gun in my flotilla during the Vietnam War. Now, tur
n into this lot here." Walter pointed a slightly gnarled index finger at a parking lot bordering a white clapboard eighteenth century building. The house sported a unique slate roof, done in a fish scale design. Crowning the roof's center was a small steeple with a burnished gold-colored weathervane in the shape of a sperm whale.

  "Very New England," Jim pulled into the lot. "I like the place already."

  "I've been coming here my whole life, my boy."

  They walked around to the front of the house.

  A wooden sign attached to the clapboard façade read:

  The Bartley Inn

  Est. by Josiah Bartley, Whaler

  1796

  Painted near the bottom of the sign were the outlines of what looked like a cod and whale.

  Jim plodded up the three brick steps and grasped the brass door handle, opening the door wide. Walter nodded and thanked Jim as he stepped into the restaurant.

  All within swirled the aromas of melted butter, baked bread, and fresh fish. A couple waited in the wooden-floored foyer while a matronly hostess waddled in to escort them into the main dining room just beyond.

  She spotted Jim, and then Walter, and her face illuminated instantly with exuberant surprise. "Hello there, Captain Walt!"

  "Well, hello to you, Mrs. Gowan," the old man waved.

  As if reading his young friend's mind, Walter spoke. "Don't even fret, Jimmy. I called ahead for a reservation. This is like one of my clubs. I eat here at least once a week."

  While the couple proceeded behind the hostess into the crowded dining room, its aroma ushered into Jim's mind those first days he had walked through the streets of Boston, three weeks after Katrina had struck. All in the downtown streets near the harbor, around Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall particularly, Jim's nose caught that certain aroma.

  He never confirmed what it was exactly. He suspected it was fish some way or the other, whether fish and chips in the pubs, or haddock or halibut prepared the same way. A smell he loved and associated with the city of Boston, much like New Orleans had its own scent: some unforgettable amalgam of coffee roasting in the bean and chicory plants, melting into the smell of Cajun foods like jambalaya, gumbo, and boiled crawfish and crabs, all mixed with the heavenly aroma of the sauce-heavy Creole dishes like Shrimp Creole and Crawfish ƒtoufŽe, and the Sicilian scents of stuffed artichokes and massive olive-salad-filled muffuletta sandwiches.