Water Lessons

by Chadwick Wall

  Jim took heart that he no longer smelled those New Orleans scents. They would only bring him sadness.

  The return of the high-spirited hostess wrested Jim from his culinary reverie. "All right, gentlemen," she said. "This way."

  As they weaved their way through the tables, several diners turned to smile and wave at Walter and to observe his young companion. The hostess motioned to a small table against the room's rear window. She had no need to pull out a chair. The nimble old man had already seated himself.

  "Our menus," Mrs. Gowan said. "I don't even need to hand it to this one! This captain's eaten here more times than there are hairs on your young head." Mrs. Gowan pointed down at Jim's brow, turned, and walked back into the foyer.

  Soon a slender young woman appeared at their table. She wore her auburn hair in a ponytail. A natural rosiness in the cheeks accented her cream-colored skin, smooth and shining with youth. The shape of her full, perky breasts revealed itself beneath her white button-down shirt.

  She lifted her small memo-pad and greeted them. "Now, how are you guys doin' taday?" she said in a thick Massachusetts accent.

  "Just fine, Kelly. I brought a young comrade of mine. He runs my boat brokerage. And dates Maureen, I might add."

  "Oh yeah?" the waitress said, glancing at Jim.

  "Boy's got his hands full," the old man cackled.

  "I wasn't gonna say anything, but…" the waitress raised her eyebrows and looked down at her notepad. "You'll be all right. What'll you gentlemen be havin' ta drink?"

  Jim motioned to Walter, but the old man deferred to him.

  "I'll take a Dr. Pepper," Jim said.

  "We don't carry that," the waitress shot back. "Wanna Pepsi instead?"

  "Sure, that's fine."

  The waitress scribbled in her notepad and then glanced at Walter.

  "A glass of ice water with lemon," the old man said.

  The waitress studied him with curiosity and a sort of expectation. "Now I know Captain Henretty don't just want an ice water."

  Walter laughed. "I'll take my Fog Cutter along with that."

  "That's the spirit." She scribbled further. "Be right back, gentlemen."

  Jim vowed to look at her without an ounce of attraction. On the back of her thin neck crawled a tattoo of a small dragon. Jim looked down at the table and took up the menu.

  "So, Jimmy," Walter leaned back in his seat, pursing his lips as he studied him. "All seems to be going well with the boat. You're doing an effective job at leading and you're pitching in, to boot. And you're not afraid to learn. The men like you."

  Jim was poised to respond but the waitress reappeared. She placed their drinks in front of them. "Okay, you guys know whatcha want?" she droned in her nasal voice.

  "All right," Jim said. "I'll take the Portuguese seafood stew."

  "It comes with a salad," the waitress said. "Dressing?"

  "Italian, please."

  "You talk funny," the waitress said. "Where ya from?"

  "South Jersey."

  The old man snorted. "As for me, I'll think I'll take a break from my lobster thermidor. I'll opt for the seared scallop salad."

  "I'll put the order in, gentlemen." The waitress left.

  "Oh, you're gonna fancy that Portuguese seafood stew, my boy!" Walter said. "Caldeirada da Marisco. It's one of their very best items, chock full of potatoes, shallots, sherry. I mean, you've got shrimp, mussels, scallops, monkfish, wolffish, cod, mackerel, squid, all that good stuff. You'll be full all day."

  "Sounds pretty hearty. I only had it once, in the Big Apple. When I took Maureen there."

  "But it's more authentic here in southern New England. See, this is where most American Portuguese live. They've been here since the seventeenth century. Like DaSilva, a lot of those guys are descended from people who fished these waters long before Washington was born."

  "Donovan was telling me that."

  "So, Jim…" Walter leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and cleared his throat. "How are things going with Maureen?" He raised his chin ever so slightly. The old man's eyes never left him.

  "Not so great. She somewhat regrets letting me move away. It's still taking a toll on her. She's having a hard time at work especially. I was there for her more when I lived in Boston. When I met up with her yesterday, she was actually kind of despondent."

  "How'd she leave it with ya, son?" The eyes of the old man brimmed with an unmistakable benevolence.

  Jim relaxed. "She needs me to see her more during the week. Or I don't think she can take it much longer."

  "What about her visiting you?"

  "That's the thing, Walter," Jim said as he winced. "She hardly ever wants to make the drive, or to meet me halfway. Even in Boston, she hardly ever came to see me. She wanted me to come to her, and to stop by her place or to pick her up somewhere."

  Walter looked down. "The branch doesn't fall too far from the tree. And I'm not the parent that's the tree, if ya follow."

  Jim snickered.

  Walter winked and sipped from his Fog Cutter. "Whaddaya say," the old man paused, "I give you the opportunity to reclaim your old job? That I give you the option. To sweeten the pot, I can plop cash down on a nice apartment in Boston. And I'll move your stuff back for free. If you choose to go back to your old job."

  "With all due respect, Walter," Jim weighed his words, "what if I don't? What if I want to stay with the Melville Brokerage and commute to see Maureen?"

  "Then my full support is behind you," Walter said. "But… what do we do if we try that and she still can't take it?"

  "Yes, I see," Jim said, fiddling with his spoon. "What if I stay on with Melville? And leave maybe early more weekdays to drive to see Maureen? And spend most weekends with her up there?"

  "As long as you sleep on her couch, my boy," Walter pointed at Jim, looked him straight in the eyes, then burst into laughter.

  Jim laughed haltingly, imagining all his intimate nights with the old man's daughter. "Yessir, of course."

  Walter slapped his hands lightly on the table. "Now we have a working plan. After all, I moved your butt down here for a reason. I need a good man over that shop. I know you love the job. And my little princess can't have her way all the time."

  "I agree wholeheartedly, sir."

  "One must set some precedence, my boy. As Truman once said, 'The buck stops here.'" He jabbed an index finger into the tablecloth.

  A woman of perhaps eighty appeared at the table, squinting, her hands clasped before her in expectation. "Is that Walter Henretty?"

  She wore a velvet dress, plum-colored and ankle-length. A string of pearls encircled her neck. Her two earrings seemed like Victorian mini-portraits done in some kind of ivory-like material. Jim had seen those before, in antique shops. Her hair was gathered up on her head in a stately, but not excessive, manner and was secured with tortoise-shell clasps. The lady wore scant makeup, in true New England fashion. Her eyes were of a rare greenish hue and emitted a gentle warmth. Surely she had once been a great beauty.

  "Is that Ms. Gwendolyn Shippey?" Walter said as he began to stand.

  Jim followed suit, but the old woman motioned for them to sit back down. The men sank into their seats.

  "And what if it is? How are you today, Walt? Corrupting this young man?" Her voice rose in mock frustration. "Teaching him how to be up to no good?"

  "Me?" Walter touched his own chest in disbelief. "But of course, Gwen!"

  "Hmmph. Who is this young man?" She stepped closer to the table.

  Walter made introductions. Then he continued, "Jim was a star at my securities firm. Now he runs my boat business here in town. He also dates Maureen."

  Ms. Shippey said, "They make a cute couple. She moved back home?"

  Jim said, "She's still up in Boston."

  "Egads! That is a distance, all right. You from down south?"

  "You guessed right, ma'am," Jim said.

  "A wild rebel in our midst," she said, glaring at Jim with feign
ed ire.

  "Ms. Shippey grew up with me in Osterville," Walter said. "Or at least when I lived in Osterville during the summer months. Hey, by the way, where's Tom?"

  "He's around. I'll tell him to stop by," Ms. Shippey said. "He doesn't know you're here." She turned and glided out of the main dining room into the kitchen.

  Within moments a man of perhaps sixty appeared in the threshold. He surveyed the room, spotted Walter, and walked into the dining room. The man stopped two feet before them. "Is that Admiral Halsey reincarnate?"

  Walter clapped his hands, rose, and then squeezed the man in a bear hug. "Tommy! How are ya, my boy?"

  "Tired, but I can't complain," the man sighed. "We just hosted a writer from Yankee Magazine for two nights and we had to be in tip-top shape."

  Jim studied the man's slightly wavy, silver hair, the piercing blue eyes, the square forehead, and the strong jaw. The man stood several inches taller than Walter, but was somewhat portly. He was clad in pressed light cream khakis and a blue button-down oxford shirt with rolled-up sleeves. All about the man swirled an interesting mixture of unmistakable authority and youthful levity that seemed familiar.

  "Jim, meet Tom Shippey," Walter said. "You just met his mother. Tom owns the Bartley Inn."

  Jim stood and shook Tom's hand. "I like this place," Jim said. "And I hear y'all do a great Portuguese fisherman's stew."

  "Y'all?" Tom laughed. "Where do ya hail from, kid?"

  "Louisiana," Jim said. He wondered if he had cringed when he answered the man. Was one of those edgy comments to follow?

  "You should taste our bouillabaisse. It's just spicy enough. Probably nowhere near what you're used to, but you might like it."

  Jim and Walter seated themselves.

  "By the way, Tom," Walter said. "I brought you something." He handed Tom a small book he had pulled from some pocket.

  Tom took it, glanced at the cover momentarily, and then held it close against his hip.

  "A little collection by Cheever," Walter said in a hushed tone. "I figured you'd like it."

  "I appreciate it, I really do," Tom said. "I better get back in the kitchen, ensure my guys are keeping up with all these lunch orders. We just hired a new sous-chef. See you in a bit."

  Soon the waitress unloaded their food.

  Jim sampled the stew. As expected, it was superb. When Jim looked up, the old man had stealthily dumped a sautŽeéd scallop, still steaming, onto Jim's empty butter plate. Jim cut a piece from the scallop and tasted it. "Wow. Garlic, butter, a trace of green onion."

  "That one's for your good work, son," Walter said. "Now get dirty up to your elbows when you get back. Bust your behind tomorrow on that boat. Then knock off work early and drive up to see my little girl!"

  "I couldn't object to that. What of that sounds like work?"

  After their meal, when they passed through the dining room toward the foyer, all eyes rested on Walter, a man the onlookers venerated, loved, and to a degree, envied.

  "Where to now, Commodore? You had an errand to run," Jim said as they crossed the parking lot toward the truck.

  "That was it, my boy!" Walter said with gusto, raising his fist.

  "Eating at the Bartley?"

  "That, and giving the book to Tom Shippey."

  Jim sensed an oddness in his friend's response, a certain evasiveness, which flattened into dead silence for half a minute.

  "And floating the offer of you moving back closer to Maureen."

  Jim felt anxious, even bewildered. He had just grown accustomed to his new role, and a happier role at that.

  Walter puffed away at his pipe and stared out the window as the great maples and the white-barked birches and the cranberry bogs shot by in a blur.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jim clutched the first of the cardboard boxes of supplies as the keypad beeped. He turned the knob and entered the warehouse. Inside, the men had settled back into their work. A Bob Seger song blared on the stereo. Inside, only Bill and Donovan remained.

  "Hi-yah, Jimmy," Bill called.

  "We're good now," Jim said. "There's more provisions in the truckbed." After setting the box at Bill's feet, he studied the leathery, ruddy face set in relief against the light blond-and-gray ponytail. "So where are our friends, Chief and Romeo DaSilva?"

  "Oh, they'll probably be by any second," Bill said. "How was lunch?"

  "Excellent," Jim said. "But first I had to see that old curmudgeon Carrington at the hardware store."

  "He's an interesting one, a real doozy. Guy owns a store that caters to tradesmen, but he's got an obvious scorn for men who work with their hands. So was he a pissant to you, too?"

  Jim said, "Until he saw I was with the Commodore himself."

  "Oh, I bet he changed his act then! Did ya get to see him sweat?"

  "Like a turkey on Christmas Eve."

  "Your Commodore's given him a small fortune over the decades, that's why. So, where did you guys eat?"

  "The Bartley Inn on Main Street. I had—"

  "He took ya to the old Bartley?" Bill dropped his jaw and stared at Jim, egg-eyed with surprise. "See that old widow with the earrings like outta some ol' Civil War daguerrotype? Shippey is the name. And her son, Tom? Kinda heavy-set?"

  "They seem to like the Commodore a good bit."

  "I bet so," Bill said. "Another two souls the old man often helps out."

  "So what's their story? You don't like the Shippeys?"

  "Nah. Good people. It ain't that," Bill said. He looked in the bags, then snatched them up. "Thanks for getting these."

  "This load was on Carrington, by the way," Jim snickered, and went to find Donovan. Jim spotted him by the boat.

  The keypad beeped. In walked Chief, with his perennial sidekick DaSilva in tow.

  "Greetings, Your Highnesses!" Donovan yelled. "Glad ya could join us!"

  Chief sauntered toward them, rubbing his belly with contentment, an expression of regal nonchalance playing upon his face. "Lunch was gooood!"

  He stopped just short of the supplies Donovan and Bill had arranged on the cement floor. He stood looking down at the paint cans, sandpaper pads, tape, and other items with curiosity.

  "Where did y'all go?" Jim said, expecting a good story.

  "Young Joey here has another admirer," Chief said. "She is an older woman to him, twenty-four. She and her roommate, they did some pot roast. It was so good. That new one ya like, Joey, ya oughtta marry. A sweet, hot girl, and she cooks like that? Not many kids today your age wanna cook."

  Joey blushed. "Ah, we'll see."

  "So you get these ladies to share their food with you, too, huh, Joey?" Jim shook his head.

  The boy pulled his hands from his pockets and made a what-me-worry gesture, palms upward. "Well, I can't stand ta cook."

  "So, you end up at their places and just outright mention you're ravenously hungry, maybe make a few puppy-dog faces?" Jim said. This deceptively shy heartthrob of Cape Cod always amused him.

  "Or I mention how great they cook or how I wanna taste their cooking."

  "Ah, Joey, you're a man of many appetites," Jim chuckled.

  The men all laughed.

  "And not all of them exactly wholesome. Now, how are those supplies I got?"

  "Good job," Donovan said. "Let's you and me fetch the rest outta the truck. Hey, Jimmy, you up for fishin' after work? Bill and me are goin' out a ways into the Sound again."

  "Count me in, podnuh."

  "Podnuh? You are from south Louisiana. Heard you guys saying that when I was down there in the Navy."

  "Joey and Chief aren't coming?" Jim said.

  "Chief has ta take his ol' lady to her night job," Bill said. "And, of course, Joey is chasin' his new dame."

  "Well, Don Juan," Jim said to DaSilva. "At least you'll get a French kiss and a hot rump roast for your efforts."

  "Jim, you're supposed to be a good Catholic boy!" Donovan said.

  "All right, all right," Jim said. "Now, before Walter fires us all
, let's jump back to work. After we bring in the boxes, Donovan, I'll help you and Bill on the hull. Chief and Joey Casanova, y'all stick with the deck."

  "Aye aye, Cap," Chief said.

  Two hours later, Jim plodded up the rolling stairwell and stepped on deck. Chief and DaSilva were working away. For the next few hours, Jim helped them lay, level, and nail the replacement boards. Throughout the shop, the raspy, bluesy voice of Bob Seger resounded from the portable stereo. After Jim returned to the deck with another armful of boards, the radio died out below.

  "What happened?" Chief yelled. "We neglectin' you guys down there?"

  DaSilva shouted, "You know we can't work without good music!"

  Bill's mischievous voice sounded below. "Hey, Swamp Thang up thar! Hey, the hard-livin' and hard-prayin' Jimmy boy!"

  "You called?" Jim stood at the rail.

  Donovan stared up at him, his hands on his hips. "Bill's got somethin' for ya!"

  "Let's hear it!" Jim said.

  The stereo kicked on. A very familiar song welled up all around him.

  "Now, hah ya like that, Mistah Scoresby?" Bill called. He looked like an old Key West beach bum with his long hair, Hawaiian shirt, and his leathery skin, red and tanned to oblivion. His blue eyes flashed like the devil's.

  "Tune reminds ya of the old homeland, eh?" Donovan said.

  Jim laughed just as the first verse began. He clapped his hands a few times and smiled down at the men.

  "'Born On The Bayou'… well done, guys."

  Jim returned to Chief and DaSilva. "Well chosen. I love Creedence and John Fogerty. He really had the best attempt at a backwoods version of a generic south Louisiana accent."

  "A'ight, professor," Chief laughed.

  Jim grabbed a board from the small pile on the deck and slid it into place next to the last one they had nailed. The chorus began. Chief and DaSilva sang along. The boy, with all of his trust in the big man, held the nail in place. Chief drove it home with a few hammer swings. Jim walked over to get the next board. The guitar solo Jim loved had ceased, and his favorite verse commenced, the one about taking the fast train with his Cajun Queen to New Orleans.