That Friday night, Jim and Maureen sat on the roof deck of her Beacon Hill townhouse, splitting a bottle of Chateau Calon-Segur. They spoke sparingly, mostly listening to the street sounds below. Occasionally, a car passed, or a couple or small group strolled down the sidewalk of the narrow cobblestone streets, leaving or approaching some party or bar or restaurant. From time to time, the wind would blow, tousling their hair, grazing them as they sat beside the parapet wall.
Lounging there languidly, with a chill, Jim remembered the violent, almost supernatural gale that took down the great schooner and the old captain.
Maureen did not react to his shudder. She had been quite distant since the incident, even more than in the weeks preceding Walter's death. She seldom spoke, never smiled, and rarely showed affection. She spent nearly all of her free time visiting with girlfriends, or sleeping alone.
"I just don't understand," Maureen said, her speech slightly slurred as she reclined in her lawn chair, "just why Daddy had to run for Chief. He had already radioed for help. If he wasn't so hardheaded, he'd be alive."
"He was the Commodore," Jim said. "He wanted to save all his crew. And he wanted to get Chief at least near the hatch in case the boat started to break apart."
"And a white squall! They happen usually in the Great Lakes and the tropics. I've researched them, Jim, the last few days."
"White squalls do occasionally occur here, but my sentiments exactly. You know that I've turned the same thought over and over in my mind."
Jim recalled the etymology he had uncovered behind the word. Squall. From the Old Norse skvala or "squeal."
His stomach grew uneasy as he remembered the whistling shriek, like a banshee's scream, that had cut through the schooner's rigging as they hugged the cockpit deck. That was the very scream that cut the air just as a twenty-foot surge leapt over the starboard side and swept the cockpit, and those inside, into the deep. Then Jim recalled the sailor from Gloucester Walter had commanded, and his scream, his shriek that tore through the World War II destroyer as it contacted the mine. Now he felt queasy.
To Maureen, he did not completely confide what the storm meant for him. It was the second time his life had been upended by the sudden arrival of a cataclysm of nature, a catastrophe of the weather. The first exiled him from his homeland, robbing him of one of his closest friends. The second thieved nearly all that he had found recently found—a chance to help wayward youth, renewed confidence on the open water, the vessel he had painstakingly repaired and remodeled. But the greatest and most painful loss was his irreplaceable friend, Walter Henretty. A man who called Jim his son, even in his last minute of life.
Not a night passed that a nightmare did not plague Jim. Freddy used to haunt his dreams. Walter had joined him.
What he still had, Jim ruminated as he sipped the wine, was Maureen. He harbored a small ember of love for her, despite that he felt she tried her damnedest to smother it. Jim hoped and prayed that ember would grow again into a roaring fire within him once again. Maureen did have many faults, but he couldn't give up on her just yet.
She lifted the bottle from the small glass table between them and poured herself another glass. She reclined in her chair, watching the illuminated windows of the surrounding brownstones.
"I've often thought it was his time. I hate to say it, but he would have loved that he went out in that way. He would've preferred to be left out there in that wreck, on the sea floor. But it's a good thing you recovered him. For us. And I know I'm boring, Jim," she said with exhaustion, as she struggled to her feet. "But I've got to return some emails."
"Love you, Miss Henretty," Jim said as he grabbed her hand, brought it to his lips.
Through the dark, Maureen smiled weakly at Jim before she opened the stairwell door. He found himself alone again to reflect, and to stew in his thoughts.
How he had loved the old captain. To be sure, their friendship proved one of the few things that made Jim's recent life tolerable. Despite the other friendships he forged, Jim tasted harshness, mockery, callousness from many.
And now the old man was gone. In the midst of his last voyage, Walter gifted his young protégé with his own father's Dunhill pipe—almost as if the old man knew his time had arrived.
Jim tilted the glass upward, draining his wine. He emptied the bottle into his glass, and set glass and bottle both on the small table. He reached deep into his left pants pocket. He produced the coveted object and held it before his eyes. Its silhouette revealed itself against the light of a brownstone's third story window.
The 1922 Dunhill had remained in Jim's buttoned shorts pocket from the moment the old man presented it until Jim stood wet and shivering in the Coast Guard station with the crew. While changing into fresh clothes, Jim discovered the pipe, and he wept silently there in the bathroom stall. He would never again see Walter. Or Freddy.
Jim drew the small bag of dark English tobacco from his right pants pocket. He packed the dark rusticated bowl of briarroot. With his left hand he shielded the bowl and held the matchbox. With his right, he struck the matches, first one, then two, then three. Jim puffed until thick plumes snaked from the bowl.
At least the old man saved his crew through enforcing the life vest rule. And Walter did radio for help. All the children and lieutenants survived.
Jim met them at the funeral in Holy Cross Cathedral in the South End. Cardinal O'Malley and Walter's parish priest concelebrated the Mass, a memorial complete with Navy honor guard and a beautiful yet gut-wrenching bagpipe procession.
How strange it was that the crew stood there and probably thought the same thing. That each of them escaped while the old man met the full force, the full fury, of the storm—a tempest sent from above to that time and that place specifically for him, and for them.
It was whispered among the survivors and the funeral service's congregation: it was a great deed and feat that Jim had salvaged Walter Henretty's body from the sinking wreck. Kathleen and Maureen had ensured it was cremated and committed to the sea, just off Nantucket.
Maureen later admitted she couldn't bear to imagine her loving father as food for sea creatures. And neither could her boyfriend. It was one of the main reasons, Jim told her, he had refused to leave without his friend.
But just why had the ship sunk? Had that massive surge against starboard cracked or compromised the hull? Was there a defect in the new hull planks and fasteners? The boat had passed inspection, and then days ago, the formal investigation had exonerated Walter and the Melville team, both in the final voyage and in the overhaul of the vessel.
Just what did God want from Jim? What had God wanted from Walter, to send that squall, to let that spar crush his chest and his life? Would Jim ever know?
Jim remembered his father's old line: "Life is but a mystery, filled with mysteries. And in the end these mysteries are probably all connected… in some honeycomb pattern."
How had he come to realize, in the last year, the wisdom in the words of the old engineer and geologist.
His father returned to the silver screen within his mind. He saw his father standing on the back porch in the dusk, as he liked to do, looking out across the grassy yard and up through the vast branches of the great loblolly pines, magnolias, sweet gums, and white and black oaks. The man who had created him and forged him into all he had become—had Jim rejected him? Perhaps he had become a heretic. He had rejected and—unwittingly—even twisted the image and likeness of his creator.
Jim had ceased praying after Walter's death. Or rather, he had refused to pray. What if there were no God? What if there were a Creator, but no afterlife?
The thought was brutal: what if all that awaited Freddy and Walter on the other side were oblivion and the total annihilation and disintegration of consciousness? He wished he could have some sort of sign.
In the end, Jim still had youth and health. He had this life, and while he still drew breath, why not spend every moment enjoying those things nearest and dearest to his hea
rt? In this he could take comfort. In this there was some victory.
Jim cradled his pipe in his palm and brought it to his lap. I need to visit more with my friends, he thought—Liam, Case, Duff, and the others. Do more than speak with Reverend and Jack and Tim on the phone. Check on the boys. Take another drive with Maureen down to Osterville to check on Kathleen, the kids, and to visit my friends in the shop. Get outside of myself. And I should see my family and friends down south—I drift further from them, day by day, and the vibrant, rich life that was mine in New Orleans…
After Jim finished the bowl, he spilled the charred tobacco into the ashtray. He returned the pipe to his left pocket, stood, and downed the last of the wine. He placed the glass on the table, told himself he would clean the mess in the morning, and disappeared down the stairwell. Hours later he woke on the living room couch.
Upstairs, he found Maureen asleep on her bed. Her empty wineglass sat on her dresser. Next to her lay her laptop, in hibernation mode.
With his own laptop in for repairs, Jim took up her computer and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. He placed the laptop on the kitchen counter, pushed the power button, and prepared to search for a news site.
Maureen had been reading an email from a John Day. Jim did not recognize the name. By instinct, Jim went to exit out of her email account, but something made him linger. He glanced at the end of the email.
Maureen, all I can tell you is that you need to cut it off completely (and soon!) with Cajun Man. I know this is the hardest, darkest time for you with your father's passing. I would have loved to have met your dad, too, Maureen. I know he meant a lot to you. That's understood. I am sure you've been a great daughter. Good thing you never told him about me. He would have no doubt leaked it instantly to his Cajun sidekick.
I digress… love, you know you cannot keep both me and your old flame. I'd been hanging on for weeks even before the accident with your dad, waiting for you to end it with Jim like you vowed you would. Even though you're the prize you are, I can't hold on forever. Anyway, cheer up. Call me tomorrow. I know you can't talk tonight. I haven't seen you in days and I can't wait until I have your sweet self and your sweet body all to myself again! Maybe we can take another day trip back to Newport. Anyway call me tomorrow! Love you.
P.S. I've said my piece with all this. Now on a funny note: I am attaching a pic Frank took of me on those slopes in Killington late last winter. Back long before I met you...
Jim scrolled down, his eyes watery and wide with horror. The last time Jim felt this pain was the moment he spotted the pale head resting on the deck of the doomed schooner.
He held his breath, shut his eyes, and exhaled hard. He recognized the young skier in the photo. It was the well-dressed man that had run into him, literally, weeks ago at Sonsie. John Day must have been spying on his "prize" and spying on him, to boot.
Jim's gut turned, but he decided to grieve no longer. He had done enough of that already. One must save sorrow and tears for those souls that merit them. He had loved the old man and always would, and owed it to Walter to be gentle with his eldest child. He must not retaliate. But he could not act oblivious. She had been found out.
Jim unplugged the laptop and trudged with it up the stairs. He shouted her name angrily as he entered the room. Maureen was immediately awake, though noticeably quite tipsy.
After a few seconds she processed that he stood before her, glaring down menacingly at her. But when she saw the open laptop, turned in his hands toward her so that she could see the illuminated screen, she bolted upright in bed.
"The writing of John Day makes for edifying reading, I must say," Jim said, and tossed the laptop onto the bed beside her. "You won't read my writing, but you'll remember this. Enjoy your daytrip to 'the island' with Johnny. And enjoy your life from here on out. You're on your own. I wanted to be a part of it. Too bad I ignored the fact that you left mine—and you deserted me—some time ago."
Maureen opened her mouth but uttered nothing. She even seemed to be choking.
He took one last look at the face—that strange mixture of child and fox—and stormed from the room, down the stairwell, and out into the street.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
That Monday morning Jim laid yet another burden on Dewey. He would move on from employment at Henretty & Henretty. Dewey impressed him with the undeniable grace and humanity of his reply.
"You don't have to say a word, Jimmy. I know your heart, son. And it is good. My brother would want what's best for you. And you know I do, too. May the wind be at your back, son."
Jim thanked him.
"But I'll hold something against you if you don't visit. Don'tcha know, I'm ya old Irish uncle, Jimmy boy."
Dewey stood and extended a hand. What a man old Dewey had been. And his manager had made it a point not to mention Maureen. No doubt he knew nothing of his niece's infidelity. Maureen could never admit a fault, much less a cardinal betrayal.
And it was a good thing Jim heard no word from her. He had spent that weekend visiting with friends: Liam, Case, Duff, Tim, Jack, Father Ben, Patrick, the men in the shop. Bryce did not answer his phone.
Luckily he could depend on Reverend Ward. The preacher, though young, was wise enough to sense the hurt in his friend's voice.
"Jim, I've been meaning to catch up. Look, what are your lunch plans today? Tanya and I are takin' you out to an old familiar place I think you'll like."
By noon, Jim found himself doing the last thing one would expect to be doing on a Monday in the heart of Boston, Massachusetts—savoring collards, fried okra, candied yams, and black eyed peas with diced smoked ham, while listening to Fats Domino.
"Sure you thought this through? Now, Jim?" Reverend Ward said, his face solemn as he leaned slightly forward over his plate toward Jim.
"I have," Jim said softly.
Jim explained how he had phoned the movers days ago, mere hours after he left Maureen. He resigned at the brokerage that morning, and the movers arrived at nine o'clock. In a hushed, humiliated, but faintly relieved tone, Jim told the Reverend and Tanya of the shocking email.
The conversation soon turned to brighter, more important things.
"Jim, the charity work you've offered is a great thing, a good thing, with the folks down at Bethesda Baptist, even though we could use you up here with us. Those guys down there—I know ’em. They're hurtin'. They could use an ol' Luzianna boy lendin' em a hand!"
"Really, Jim," Tanya said, her eyes the picture of pathos.
"And I'll admit, Jim, I didn't think you'd take so easy to life up here. You're a Luzianna man, and you missed it too much to stay away. I have a feeling your destiny lies down there. Go finish that first novel."
"I suspect you're right, Reverend."
"Call me Cordell, Jim. And I think mine does lie up here in Boston. And a little bit in 'Nawlins, too. Tanya and I both."
The grinning pastor put his arm around his wife. "We'll catch you down there from time to time, doing mission work. But years from now, you'll increasingly appreciate how special a place Boston is. And one of the greatest things about this nation… is this region."
"I actually agree with that," Jim said.
"Now, you did often take things too seriously here," Cordell said. "But I knew all along you'd be happier closer to your roots. You're not meant to be a denizen of the big city."
The waiter arrived with the bill. Jim tried to snatch it. The Reverend and Tanya argued with him back and forth over it, but Cordell insisted.
"You win, you win," Jim said. "My treat, next time I'm up here. Or when y'all are down in the Crescent City, Reverend."
Cordell laid cash on the table and they walked out the door. "Remember, not Reverend," he told Jim. "Cordell, my friend. Cordell!"
He stretched out a hand to him. Jim shook it firmly, then hugged Cordell and Tanya goodbye. Minutes later, Jim rolled west in his old Chevy truck along Interstate 90—the Massachusetts Turnpike—on what he knew would be a very l
ong but exciting road home.
It would be a quiet journey, too. Two days later, just at the point of crossing south over the Georgia line on Interstate 24, Jim received a text from Maureen. No apologies, only a demand that he meet her at Sonsie that night at eight.
Jim hurled the phone, along with an unopened bottle of bourbon, through the passenger's open window into the Tennessee River.
At twilight the next day, he pulled onto the long oyster shell drive, through the dense tract of magnolias, sweetgum, thick longleaf pines, white oaks, live oaks, and cypress, the latter two dripping with Spanish moss. The words of his preacher friend echoed in his ears:
"You're a Luzianna man. And you missed it too much to stay away. I have a feeling your destiny lies down there."
Jim parked his truck alongside the tin-roofed Acadian cottage, his passenger door facing its front door. The weeping yet smiling gray-haired man and the pale, black-haired woman who once gave him life burst onto the porch. They stood, embracing each other, waiting for him to emerge from the truck. Smiling at him with narrowed eyes, just next to them, stood his brother Paul.
Suddenly Jim froze, his gaze directed through his windshield for nearly half a minute. Far down the long horseshoe drive, side by side, stood two unmistakable figures. They stared back at him, grinning slightly, their chins raised. Freddy "Foghorn" Beasley and Commodore Walter Henretty waved once and nodded. Walter in his formal Navy Captain's uniform. Freddy in his guayabera, linen pants, guaraches, and porkpie hat.
Jim gave a start and wiped his eyes.
Then they turned—and with Walter draping a relaxed arm on Freddy's shoulder—walked and vanished around the bend into eternity.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in New Orleans and its suburbs—and working and residing there during Katrina—Chad has written for the New Orleans Times-Picayune, The Sewanee Purple, The Riverside Reader, The Baton Rouge Advocate, and most recently Austin.com. After years living in many cities and regions, he counts himself lucky enough to reside in the laid-back yet vibrant, friendly, and creative city of Austin. Here he spends many of his days and nights either holed up like a hermit, reading or writing away—or prowling around, investigating all of the live music, delicious cuisine, and cultural hotspots he can find.
Water Lessons Page 30